


Lesser Evils

by Siriusfanatic



Series: X-Men: Past, Present and Future [10]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Captivity, Dark Humor, Dubious Consent, M/M, Polyamory, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Stockholm Syndrome, Telepathic Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7028581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusfanatic/pseuds/Siriusfanatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Perspective" Mr. Sinister comes to claim one of his prize assets, Sabretooth, from a SHIELD holding facility. But Sabretooth learns quickly that he's made the jump from the frying pan into the fire, as Sinister's long term plans for him come to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OC's "Timmy" and "Dorian Grey" belong to myself and hellsingfanchick. Please do not use without permission! You can message me here or find me on tumblr at hectorspearl.tumblr.com if you would like to use our characters. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading and commenting!

 

 

 

                Life in a cage was something Victor Creed had always sought to avoid. His wild nature made the idea of close confinement deeply unpleasant to his most basic senses. And sometimes, if he let himself, he could dwell on reasons why he hated being trapped in the dark…

                But despite his deep distaste for it, being a prisoner was far from a new experience to him. He’d occupied hundreds of jails in his long life, experienced nearly every kind of entrapment and incarceration in just about every corner of the globe.

                So, all that considered, being locked in the clean and possibly overly sterile SHIELD facility was not so bad.

                His cell was small and lacked everything but a foldout slab of a bed, a sink and a toilet. There were no bars, just an electrified force field that divided him from the world outside. A guard was posted across from his station around the clock.

                Fury wasn’t taking any chances, given Victors extremely violent history.

                Across the aisle he could spot Mesmero, now disrobed from his cooky cape and garments and dressed in a plain blue prison uniform, a strange sort of helmet clapped to his bald and tattooed head to keep him from using his powers. He was reading a magazine and doing his best not to look at Creed, who enjoyed passing the time by staring him down and freaking him out.

                Alone with his thoughts, which was always a bad thing, Victor had plenty of time to brood. And that was perhaps the worst part of imprisonment. The boredom. The listlessness. Being told when to sleep, when to piss and when to eat. And having nothing to preoccupy himself with except for memories.

                Creed was not like Logan. His mind was largely intact, and he could easily remember all the way back to where his sordid journey on this earth had begun. It was a dreadfully long count of years when he thought about it.  But like his brother, the early years were full of trauma and things he done his best to bury.

                Pausing to ruminate about it now, he realized there were very few people he ever lingered on. Logan was always present of course, but…other than that there was no one he thought much or often of. Creed had never been the kind to form sentimental attachments to people.

                Until recently, it seemed.

                He paced the floor of the tiny cell for the eighth hour that day, his mind on the person he’d left behind in Essex’s facility. The clone he had jokingly named Timmy. His Beta.

                He’d been gone longer than intended. He hadn’t expected to take so long dealing with Raven, and her twisted ideas of what to do with him. Darkholm was mad, always teetering somewhere between chaotic evil and neutrality, the heroine of her own dramatic, twisted tale. Creed never much cared for her radical ideas of heroism or terrorism. He wasn’t a ‘big picture’ kind of person. But she was such a force that Creed not only tolerated, but actually enjoyed when she walked all over him. Literally and figuratively.

                But she had been an unwanted detour on this mission, and worse, she had failed to yield any leads. His hunt for a bartering chip. Something which he could trade with Sinister for…in exchange for his Beta’s release.

                If Victor wanted to run from Essex, escape entirely, he could have. Sinister’s reach was far, but not all encompassing, and unlike LeBeau, he knew how to hide and to stay hidden. There were, after all, places even the powerful Mr. Sinister would not tread.

                But then he’d gone and gotten… _attached_. And once Creed got attached to something…he either made it his, or he made sure no one else would have it.

                He’d invested too much work in Timmy now to just abandon him to Sinister’s clutches, to be scraped for parts or used for god knows what. Timmy was the perfect Beta—loyal, obedient, deviant and vicious and always, _always_ eager to please. He wasn’t going to give that up.

                Which left him there, pacing the floor, frustrated and bored and brooding, that one unsolved problem swirling at the forefront of his mind. How as he going to get back to him?

 

                “Sit down, Creed.” The guard muttered, looking up from his chair and his phone, almost as irritated and bored as Victor felt.

                The feral mutant bared his teeth and barked at him like a wild dog and the man looked on, pretending not to be impressed, but Victor smelled the faint spike of adrenaline that rushed through him.

                The man tucked away his phone and stood up, stepping closer to the wall that divided them, brandishing his stick, which was actually a rather large electrified rod that could give Creed a rather nasty jolt.

                “What was that pussy cat?” the guard mocked. “Don’t like your little pen? Don’t worry. You’ll get a much nicer one when they get you to the real facility. Where I bet it will be a long, long, _long_ time before you see the light of day again.”

                Victor showed him his fangs and then his claws and stepped as close as he dared to the shield, peering down at the shorter human who looked up at him with a slightly nervous smirk. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to _poke_ the tiger in the cage…?” he rumbled. “Cause ya just never know when he might turn on ya…and reach through the bars…and bite your stupid little head clean off.”

                The guard gulped faintly and Victor smirked at him.

                The door to the holding area opened then with a loud whooshing sound as the door slid to the side, the green light above the door signifying cleared security access. A woman, blonde and wearing a slightly different SHEILD uniform, one that denoted much higher ranking, stepped into the corridor and approached them.

                “Mr. Wallace,” she greeted the guard bluntly. “Please lower the security measures on Mr. Creed’s cell. I’m here to escort him to the next transport.”

                The guard blinked at her. “What? Nobody told me about transferring him—“

                “Are you questioning Commander Fury’s orders?”

                The smaller man paled. “Well…no, but…” he glanced between Creed and the woman. “Where’s your security detail? Your restraints? You can’t just…take him out there without--?”

                “Did I ask for your opinion, Mr. Wallace?”

                “No Ma’am, but—“

                “Then do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut.”

                “Yes Ma’am.”

                The woman stepped up to security panel outside the cell and after being scanned and identified, the force filed was powered down.

                Creed looked to Wallace, fighting the impulse to jump at him and rip his throat out. But the guard must have known what he was thinking because he was positively pungent with fear scent now. But instead, he remained still and calm, watching the woman curiously as she stepped inside with him. This was more than a little unusual…and Victor kind of wanted to see how it would play out.

                The woman pulled from the pouch on her thigh a set of handcuffs, which she slapped on his wrists. Once clasped they morphed from being simple wrist shackles into casings which bound his whole hands.

                Sabretooth gave a little grumble of disapproval, but allowed her to lead him out. “Where are we going?” he snapped.

                The woman ignored him, keeping a firm hold on his elbow as she lead him along the corridor.

                Creed noticed she didn’t seem right. Most everyone he’d met on the helecarrier was either afraid or fascinated by him. This woman seemed completely devoid of any feeling, her steps seemed almost robotic…

                They passed through another security check, and on the other side, Creed found the answer to his riddle.

                Mr. Sinister himself stood there, among some obviously mind-controlled SHEILD agents, looking extremely nonplused to see his associate.

                “Well, well, if it isn’t the old spook himself, _in the flesh_ no less. What’s the matter, Essex? Did you miss me?” he laughed.

                The red diamond upon Sinister’s head gleamed faintly and the woman beside Victor turned and belted him harm across the knees, then the stomach with her club, making the large feral fall to ground, winded and snarling.

                Essex stepped up to him and grabbed a fist full of his hair, forcing him to look up at him. “Of all the ridiculous things I’ve tolerated from you, Victor Creed, this has got to be the most odious. You vile, impulsive, _dimwitted_ thug…”

                He dragged Victor up, forcing him to follow behind him as the agents escorted them to the door, obviously oblivious to what was happening to them. “That I should be forced to actually come here and _retrieve_ you from a SHEILD facility as if I were posting bail for a common criminal…”

                “No one asked you to.”

                Essex turned and looked at him with such severity and hellish irritation that Victor actually flinched. “I do not take lightly those that would waste my very valuable time, Sabretooth. Have you forgotten your obligations to me? Our arrangements? Or do you think I am so easily put off as Lieutenant Stryker and Weapon X?”

                “Naw, Stryker was a tool. And not half as scary as you, Dracula.”

                “Then tell me why it is I am here.”

                “Cause you’re desperate apparently.”

                Sinister turned and struck him forcefully across the face, enough to make his nose crack and fill his mouth with blood. “I am here because you allowed yourself to be _distracted_.”

Victor howled as the man was suddenly in his mind, forcefully scanning his memories over the last few weeks, all the way up to his reunion with Wolverine. The mental scan did not have to be painful, but Sinister was making certain it was. It didn’t help that Victor’s own mind was such a broken mess of violence, trauma and animalist instinct that was difficult for the telepath to navigate with ease.

                When he had gleaned all that he wanted from the man’s recent memory, he pulled back, looking thoroughly disgusted and somehow even more angry. “LeBeau…LeBeau is alive?”

                “Yeah…about that…”

                This was met with another hard slap. “You are not even capable of fulfilling your sole purpose in my organization!? You are not even capable of killing one man, alone and defenseless?!” His eyes looked wild, crazied. For a moment Victor thought another blow was coming, but Essex exhaled and adjusted the few slick black hairs that had fallen out of place above his brow.

                “…no matter. You’ve failed me, of course, but in your incompetence you’ve gained me a new opportunity. And I suppose that _is_ something of value.”

                “Whatever.”

                Essex moved him towards a larger area of the ship before pulling him in closer to him and pressing a small round disk to his chest, which started to glow red then blue. “What the fuck is this?”

                “Shut your mouth for a moment,” the man muttered, flicking his fingers at him. Victor went to retort only to find that he had no voice. Sinister was playing with some small controller in his hand as Creed fumed next to him, and then a moment later there was bright flash of light.

                Victor went light-headed and dizzy for a second or two, and then suddenly he was standing back in the dark and grimly elegant looking foyer of Sinister’s lair.

                Essex removed the cuffs from his hands, and the disk from his chest, tucking them away in his jacket pocket.

                “Wow…it was that easy for you, huh?” Creed asked, realizing his voice had been restored.

                “Hardly,” Essex snapped at him, looking tired for the experience. “Controlling a whole ship of SHIELD agents is taxing even for the likes of me. Not to mention the time and energy wasted discerning your location and breaking through their security to even _allow_ teleportation…” he sighed and rubbed his temples in irritation. “Nevermind it now. I’ll deal with you later. Just…get out of my _sight._ ”

                “Gladly.” Victor grunted, making a quick beeline for the halls that lead to Sanctuary. He needed to check on Timmy, to know if he had survived his absence. Part of him told him not to hope for too much, despite the precautions he had taken. There was every chance that Sinister, or his fiendish, twisted assistant Dark Beast, had managed to find his Beta and used him for their own sick purposes…

                In which case…

                Sinister would be getting a much worse headache very, very soon.

                But he had to know for sure.

                Striding along the halls, he encountered few people, as the lair was not largely populated, save for Sinister’s experiments, his worker clones which maintained the facilities, and the Marauders.

                Creed rounded the corridor that lead from the main house to the adjacent tower, and thus to the Sanctuary above, when he nearly collided with another figure, one that was a shade different from the man he’d just left.

                “Mr. Creed!”

                The feral hesitated in his step, thrown off by the surprised nature of the outcry. He glanced back over his shoulder at the man who stood behind him, looking breathless and delighted and utterly stunned. It was one of Essex’s clones of course, but this one stood out from the rest.

                He was smaller, younger looking by many years; a picture of what Essex must have been in his mid-twenties all those centuries ago. “You-you’re back! You’re back!”

                “…Copy-cat.” Creed grinned slowly, his sense of smell finally tying together the last strings of his memory. Yes, he knew this strange little creature, who was recognized as “16” among his fellow workers. This strange deviation who had actually offered him help on their last meeting, agreeing to assist him in hiding Timmy from Hans’s ever hungry clutches until his return.

                The man practically blushed at the use of the familiar nickname he’d given him, looking all the more flustered. “Sir, it’s been so many weeks…forgive me, but I was beginning to believe that you wouldn’t return.”

                “I never work on anyone’s schedule but my own,” Sabretooth muttered, glancing around as though he wished Essex was there to hear.

                “Of course.” The clone mumbled, clearing his throat and attempting to straighten his cravat around his collar. In doing so, Creed noticed that his neck had some discoloration which seemed like bruising, just under the shadow of the high white collar, and that the pale, thin figured looked a bit frailer than he remembered.

                Though why he remembered exactly he couldn’t quite recall.

                “But Timothy will be so very _relieved_ to see you. He has been desperately worried, practically out of his mind with it in fact.”

                Victor’s eyes lit up. “He’s alive then.”

                “Of course,” the clone said quickly. “Absolutely sir. He’s been quite well hidden this whole time, and if I do say so, he’s adapted quite marvelously, all things considered.”

                “Take me to him.”

                Sixteen nodded quickly and started forward, and Creed noticed that his walk was slow and slightly awkward as their seemed to be a lingering tightness and a limp to his step.

                It wasn’t exactly unusual for clones to be mistreated in Essex’s facility. After all, the supply was practically endless, and Hans was not shy about using whatever he could get his claws on for test subjects. They were no more valued than lab rats, really.

                “Oh,” the smaller man in front of him spoke then as they ascended the elevator to the upper levels of the tower. “I should inform you that I have been given a new title by Dr. McCoy. Everyone in the facility is required to use it.”

                “Title? What’s that mean?”

                “Well…he wishes everyone to call me…Dorian.”

                Victor scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Sounds like a name he’d come up with. It’s as pretentious as him and Essex. Why’s he calling ya something stupid like that?”

                “Well, the title was gleamed after the literary character, Dorian Grey, by the book of the same title. I suppose it’s some reference to my youthfulness and—“ he noted the bored, passively irritated look on Creed’s face and stiffened, folding his hands in front of himself. “He named me so that I could be more easily located.”

                “Located for what? To bring him his tea and his cat litter?”

                Dorian didn’t answer, looking rather grim. Victor didn’t like the smell coming off the little man; it was rank with fear and something deeper, earthy and full of iron, like old blood. Normally it was a smell he would relish, but in this place, it only sought to remind him that here he was part of the hunted, no longer the only predator.

                “I’m still calling you Copy-cat.”

                The clone almost smiled, cheeks faintly red again. “If that is your wish, Mr. Creed.”

               

                They reached the highest floor and Victor strode ahead, eyes forward, head down and nostrils flared, as if he were bracing himself for something. The smaller man beside him moved before him, holding up a hand to stay his advance.

                “He moves around quite frequently,” he began, “but I think that I will be able to locate him quickly enough.”

                “Moves around?”

                “It wasn’t feasible to have him remain in one location at all times, even keeping him with the other clones of his kind he soon became too noticeable, as his movements were far more advanced, more articulate. So I’ve been helping him shuffle about the Sanctuary…”

                Victor was only half listening, not quite sure what the man in front of him was babbling about. Hans must have been eager indeed to take advantage of his absence and get his hands on the weaker specimen. Creed’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding faintly at the thought.

                Dorian lead him down the path towards the familiar enclosures that housed the Bamfs, as well as the more recent, swampy landscape that housed the other LeBeau clones. Creed noted that they had learned at least to hide themselves when people passed, but he got a glimpse of a few, who looked lean and hungry and bitter beneath the shadows of the old moss laden trees.

                He was surprised then when Dorian did not stop here, but continued onward, past his own private enclosure and further down the twisting path to places he himself had never investigated. They came upon a darkened edge of the large room, seldom used, with another seemingly forgotten enclosure that looked to have been largely unused.

                Who or what it had been fashioned for Creed was uncertain, as the landscape was somewhat overgrown, wild and rocky, leading down into what looked like a large ravine that was difficult to see into for the murkiness of the foggy air inside.

                Here Dorian took the panel upon the partition, entering some code upon its panel that allowed him to step inside the artificial environment. He took from his pocket a small flashlight, which he flickered into the fog.

                Creed grunted impatiently, getting a deep breath of air. It all smelled like moss and vapor and decaying vegetation. But he was picking up on another smell now, one that sent a thrill through him. A  moment later, something came creeping towards them from the depths, hesitant and halting in its movements, keeping out of full view.

                “Timothy, it’s alright,” the grey-skinned man assured calmly, stepping a bit further into the enclosure now, fading a bit into the mist.

                Here he could see the figure that lingered in hiding, crouched and taught, ready to flee.

                “Timothy it’s safe now, I assure you. Doctor McCoy has been occupied all day in his lab…won’t you please come out?”

                There was another rustle of movement in the shadows and the figure moved closer to Dorian, enough that he could see his face through the haze. “…don’t smell de same as I remember…” Timmy’s voice came through the fog, quiet and suspicious.

                But Dorian remained calm. “He has been away for some time, remember. Please, just come and see for yourself.”

                Victor stilled as the figure revealed itself fully. He’d only been gone a few weeks, yet the man before him seemed to have changed as if months had gone by. The lean, pale, tattooed and marked figure he’d left behind was replaced by something more firm and robust looking, muscles more apparent on his narrow frame, rough callouses visible on his feet, hands and knees. His hair had grown, falling al little further down his nape, and Creed noticed that the way he held himself now was more akin to a hunter, lying in wait, and less of frightened and nervous prey.

                The smaller man stiffened at the sight of Victor, red and black eyes widening in surprise.

                Victor remained where he was, waiting to see his reaction. Timmy would do one of two things, he guessed. He would either reject Creed for abandoning him and run, or he would wait to be approached by his Alpha to have his place in the pack reaffirmed.

                But Timmy did neither of these things. After a moment of what seemed to be shock, the smaller man stalked right up to Creed, stood staring up into his face, rough hands reaching up to claps first his arms, then shoulders, then chest and finally his face. He sniffed at him, looking him up and down, as if he couldn’t be sure this was _really_ him.

                Creed grunted at the awkward inspection and grabbed the smaller man’s wrists, looking into his eyes. “What’s the matter, shrimp? You forget me so—“

                His words were abruptly muffled as Timmy leaned up and devoured his mouth in a desperate kiss, whimpering against him as he clutched him close, mashing himself against him. Creed wrapped his arms tightly around him, glad to possess him once more.

                The rusty haired figure pulled back for air, nuzzling his face close to Victor’s and grinning with unbridled delight, smile so wide that it must have caused his cheeks to ache and his eyes to tear up. “You came back…”

                “Said I would.”

                “Thought you lied.”

                Victor nipped him lovingly on the throat and pressed him closer. “Not today.”

                The smaller man beside them looked on, adverting his eyes from the intimate display. He felt a small sense of accomplishment, and relief that he had been able to keep his word to Sabretooth, who had put his trust in him against all odds. But there was a sort of tightness in his chest at seeing them together that way…

                Their relationship was such a strange and foreign concept to him, even now in his evolving state. The world he knew was deeply devoid of anything akin to tenderness or love, yet this strange clandestine bond between the Alpha feral and his mate was as close as he’d ever witnessed.

                What must it be like to cling to someone that way, to crave them and trust in them fully the way that Timmy did to Creed?

                Dorian couldn’t imagine…or maybe he didn’t want to. Because seeing it displayed in front of him this way was like looking at the sun.

                He started to excuse himself, suddenly catching Timmy’s attention. “Where you goin’ prissy kitty?” the other clone asked with that familiar wicked grin.

                Creed raised an eyebrow. “What did you just call him?”

                Timmy managed to wriggle himself free from Creed’s arms—much to the feral’s surprise—and moved towards Dorian, circling him and nudging him back towards their group the way an eager dog might it’s playmate.

                “Prissy Kitty,” Timmy repeated, with a bit more emphasis this time. “Cause he’s a sneaky little cat, but fussy as hell. Right?” he grinned, putting his arms around Dorian’s narrow shoulders and nipping lightly at his ear.

 Dorian looked slightly flustered, straightening his suit and gloves, shrugging a bit, clearly uncertain at how Creed would perceive this. “Timothy and I have become…somewhat familiar with each other over the last few weeks. He seems to enjoy referring to me as a cat, and seems amused by my need to keep up appearances. Hence…’prissy kitty’, came to be.”

Creed chuckled low in his throat. “Seems like the shrimp’s gotten fond of ya,” he replied. “Good for you.” He stepped closer to the pair, tugging Timmy to his side as he regarded Dorian seriously. “I suppose I owe you one for sticking your neck out all this time. Can honestly say I wouldn’t have expected it…I hope you won’t go changing your mind, now that I’m back.”

“Oh no sir,” Dorian replied seriously, looking quite adverse to the idea. “Our arrangement will remain between us.”

“Good.” He looked at Timmy then, “Come on shrimp…I got an itch that need scratching.”

Timmy laughed and scratched his hands down Creed’s chest, hungry for what would come next as the bigger man lifted him and carried him back towards their own enclosure. He draped his arms around Creed’s broad shoulders, nuzzling his neck contentedly. But as he looked back he saw Dorian looking after them with an almost lonely expression on his face.

He waved to him fondly and Dorian returned the gesture, though it was still somewhat stiff and awkward. He hadn’t yet mastered these strange friendly gestures that came so easily to the others like Timmy, Creed and the Marauders—those who had lived and known a life outside these walls. But he was growing to like them.

                He stood there for a long moment in their wake, feeling the quiet surround him fully, unsure of what to do with himself.

                For weeks, he’d been filled with a new and unique sense of purpose and belonging. Taking care of and making sure that Timmy remained hidden from Hans and Sinister had been the driving force in his life.

                Now, all too suddenly, his task was complete. Once more he was left…oddly directionless.

                He sensed that this feeling was not something he had been intended or designed to feel. Like all the others of his kind, he had been made and bred for the single purpose of assisting and perpetuating Dr. Essex’s cause. His life should have held no more purpose than that.

                And yet…he craved more.

                He had evolved. Not unlike Timmy had.

                But unlike the other clone…he lacked a guiding hand, and now that Creed had returned he found himself feeling abandoned, forgotten…obsolete.

                And that put a new kind of feeling, deep down in his chest and the pit of his stomach. A gnawing, anxious, tightening dread. Without Timmy and Creed to occupy his time, there was only one other soul in the entire compound that found him _useful_.

                Dorian straightened himself and walked stiffly towards the door, determined not to dwell on the thought. He shouldn’t fuss about it…it wasn’t as if he could do much to change the situation after all. And perhaps now, with Creed back and Timmy returning to the open, Hans would be too busy…

                But he wouldn’t wish that on them.

                Dorian wouldn’t wish Dark Beast on any living soul.

                He left the Sanctuary then, striding his way into the elevator. He was determined to banish these troubling thoughts and feelings from his mind, as they had only served to make him feel uncomfortable and sour. He still had several tasks that needed completed before the end of the night, and that should suffice in wearing him out.

                He had been so relieved to see Victor again. Almost…happy. Why exactly he couldn’t understand. Victor Creed was no less of a villain than any of the other people who roamed these treacherous halls and yet…Creed was not cut from the same cloth.

                The doors opened and he stepped out into the familiar milky white light of the corridor beyond, when he felt a large shadow fall across him.

                “Busy, busy little bee you’ve been…”

                Dorian felt the crush of Dr. McCoy’s heavy body colliding roughly with his, throwing his much smaller frame against the hard steel wall. The feral’s claws were tearing at the fabric of his jacket and vest as they sought to hold him in place, his fangs brandished just a breath from his face, feeling the heat of his breath on his skin. The beast took a deep inhale of him, and Dorian watched as his yellow, cat-like eyes dilated as result.

                “Please!” Dorian rasped, his voice hitching higher with shock and intense and sudden dread, “Please, Dr. McCoy, I haven’t—“

                “Oh yes,” Hans muttered, “do go on with your _lies_ , my good man. I am _extremely_ eager to hear them.”

                If possible Dorian paled even further, gulping roughly. His fear scent was potent enough now that it made Hans’ cat like eyes widen and then narrow until there was only a thin slit of an pupil. The clone began to tremble in the beasts’ fierce grip.

                He knew this day was coming. He knew eventually he’d be caught. But he could not have fathomed how terrified he would be when the moment came.

                “You’re afraid,” Hans rumbled. “How truly extraordinary…you know, most of your fellow clones are little more than nonplused when they are punished for any errors. They simply don’t register the idea of punishment. To them it’s simple consequence. But you…Dorian. _My_ Dorian.”

                The claws twisted a little further into the fabric of his clothing, catching his skin and causing short, sharp ripples of pain. Little droplets of blood swelled to the broken surface, heightening the feral mutant’s already incensed disposition. “You know very well what it means to be _punished_. Don’t you?”

                “Y-yes, Doctor…”

                “And yet you _lied_ to me. Not on only on this occasion it seems, but on _many._ And to my very _face_. You clever, wicked little creature…what are you becoming?”

                Dorian didn’t answer, because he had none. McCoy snarled then at his lack of response and threw him to the side, sending him crashing to the hard floor, skidding across it and moaning in response.

                “Why did you hide S-13 from me?” he demanded.

                “I’m sorry sir—“

                Hans roared at him and took another swipe with his claws, shredding one of his pant legs and making the man yelp in terror again as the beast fell upon him, crouched over him on all fours. “ _NOT_ the answer!”

                This was it. At any moment Hans was going to set his massive teeth into his throat and end him utterly. So what was the point of maintaining his façade of ignorance?

                “I-I didn’t want you to hurt him.” He muttered, forcing him to speak as clearly and directly as he was able, though his whole body was shaking.

                “And why should that matter to you?” Dark Beast snarled.

                Again, no answer to offer. Timmy shouldn’t have mattered to him. He had developed a sense of self-preservation, yes, and that was stunning enough. So what had he developed now, that he would disregard that instinct to save someone else?

                Some might have called it a conscience.

                Hans called it stupidity.

                Frustrated with the man’s lack of answers, he dragged him up again, tugging him behind him like an animal being dragged to slaughter. “No matter. You’ve drawn him out of hiding, and now that Sabretooth had returned, the two will be far easier to keep track of. I’ll get the details out of you…once you’ve learned your lesson.”

                Dorian didn’t say anything, though he felt like there was a scream crawling its way up his throat. But he didn’t protest—what would be the point? He deserved this he supposed. He had disobeyed, repeatedly. He had concealed Dr. McCoy’s subject, he had falsified so many reports and repeatedly went out of bounds in his attempts to move Timmy around.

                But he thought of Timmy again, and how grateful he had looked to be back in Victor’s arms. And even the way that the other feral had regarded him with that strange air of gratitude…

                Dorian hoped it was worth it.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

 

***

               

                Victor paid little attention to his surroundings as he reentered the enclosure he’d once made his own. Timmy was still clinging to him, kissing his neck and shoulders and making pleased, loving little whimpers as he was swept from view, disappearing down below the rocky horizon of the grassy hill to the cave far below.

                Everything smelled different and yet the same to Creed. He recognized the artificial nature of the filtered air, the dim scent of pines and water, all at half the potency of the real thing. He noticed that Timmy’s scent was almost gone from the environment, indicating how long it had been since the young clone had been present here.

                The cave was dark and abandoned looking, but Creed ignored the musty state of it, eagerly depositing his lover on the matt of dry grass that had served as their bed.

                He dropped down over him, nuzzling him and breathing him in deep, not realizing how much he had been craving it since his departure. Timmy ground up against him from his position beneath Creed’s large, muscular body, craving touch and closeness.

                He hadn’t been sure that Victor would return. After days had stretched into weeks, and weeks almost in a month’s time. With his limited scope of the world,  the absence had felt infinite. More than once he had found himself crying out in the night for Creed, who was his protector, his guide, his whole world. Faced with the terrible idea that he might never come back, Timmy had been forced to change once again, and evolve and learn to rely on himself.

                It had been a frightening transition, but now that his Alpha was back, he hoped his patience and perseverance would be rewarded.

                His Beta tore him out of his clothes, ignoring the strange scents from the outside world that lingered on them, and attached his mouth to any bit of flesh he could, kissing and licking and biting, hearing Victor purr and growl pleasurably in response.

                He had Timmy out of the tight black shorts he wore in moments, discarding the fabric and setting his hands to his naked skin, hungry for the feel and heat of it. He growled quietly and tugged the smaller man’s head back, allowing him to set his teeth and tongue to his neck, biting and sucking, leaving a fresh trial of bruises surrounding the old mark he’d left on the place between the man’s neck and shoulder.

                “Victor!” Timmy yelped happily, raking his hands across his back and chest.

                Creed grunted excitedly in response, fondling the man roughly and listening to him gasp and moan in response. He wanted in him, _now_. But it had been too long since he’d claimed the other man, and attempting to go raw and fast would most likely be too damaging for him. He turned his attentions to the clutter that filled the neglected den and spotted a half-used bottle of lubricant discarded there. He reached for it and made short work of slicking both himself and Timmy up, before pushing the man’s hips up into his lap and pressing forward with a good hard swing of his hips.

                Timmy cried out, arching off the floor, digging his nails deep into Victor’s arms. It hurt, but he knew the pain would pass. Creed grunted and braced him, pulling back and swinging forward again, slowly working his way through the tight muscles until it was easier for him to sink inside. Timmy squirmed and moaned, perhaps a little too desperate for contact.

                Creed feared he’d hurt himself, so he closed himself around the smaller man, bringing everything to a slower, more intimate place, doing his best to comfort his Beta until he relaxed fully and gave all control over to Creed. Which was exactly what the feral wanted.

                Timmy forgot how big and thick Victor was. How the man effortlessly struck his inner sweet spot that made him jolt and his groin pulse and throb and ripped groans and sighs out of his mouth without his consent. And Creed seemed to be taking extra care, even in his haste, to make sure that he staid completely stimulated, giving him almost no chance to breathe.

                Needless to say the younger mutant did not last long under such intense conditions, and Victor felt him tense and spasm around him,  a scream of pleasure escaping his mouth as he came between them, pressed hard against his stomach and chest in his curled positon.

                Victor purred happily but didn’t relent in his course, knotting his thick fist in Timmy’s hair and going faster now, listening as his lover’s scream faded into whimpers and moans as Creed continued to fuck him.

                It took several more minutes for Victor to complete as well, grunting harshly as he did and burying himself as deep as possible inside Timmy’s shaking body until he was completely spent. They were both overheated, flushed and sticky, the smaller man quivering and already half hard again, leaking faintly. After all, Victor hadn’t stopped stimulating him and his body couldn’t help but react, even if it wasn’t fully ready for another round.

                Victor nipped at his jaw and kissed him roughly, squeezing his cock and making the other man yelp. “You’d better come again for me,” he muttered. “Cause I ain’t even close to done.”

                Timmy simply nodded affirmatively, grinning and kissing Creed back with surprising enthusiasm.                  “Yes, Kitty, I’ll be good.”

                Victor felt a little thrill go through him at those words, remembering the first time he’d heard them. He licked and kissed the man passionately, turning him over onto his hands and knees and pulling his hips back , readjusting himself inside him before starting again.

                Timmy groped at the mat and the ground, bracing himself against the onslaught as best he could, but soon Creed was holding him up completely. There smell of blood and sex and sweat filled the little enclosure, making them both light headed with it. The young brunette shivered and whimpered as a second orgasm was wrenched out of him, causing him to spend himself again, dripping onto the floor. A deep ache went through his groin as result of being so emptied, but he relished it. He missed his Alpha using him up this way, taking everything he had. Victor knew how to satisfy him so deeply he couldn’t move afterwards. Yet he always remained hungry for more.

                Creed came a second time a short ten minutes later, followed by a spontaneous third when Timmy crawled into his lap and ground against his still sensitive skin as he kissed him.

                Finally, Sabretooth decided they’d had enough. Exhausted, he curled around the smaller figure, cuddling him close and tasting his salty skin. Timmy continued to quiver faintly, breathing hard. Creed smoothed his rough hands down his body as gently as he could, eventually soothing the tremors.

                “Don’t leave again,” Timmy mumbled, somewhere between sleep and awake, his brain partially overloaded by the intense session that had left him bruised and bloodied.

                Creed grunted in affirmation, pulling Timmy closer still to keep him warm as he drifted off to sleep himself, giving not another thought to his employer, or what exactly Sinister was going to do now that he had him back. All that could wait until later. Right now he was content to sleep and let Sinister weave his plans without him.

 

**

 

                A few hours later, Timmy woke up in the dark, hearing the deep heavy sound of Victor’s breathing close to his ear and the heavy weight of his sleeping body folded over his. For a moment he did not want to move, fearing it would disturb his Alpha and cause him to undo their close connection.

                He had begun to believe that he would never feel that warmth again, and the idea of going back to sleeping in an anxious, watchful ball each night, alone in the dark was a deeply unpleasant one.

                His body still ached vaguely, and he felt the dull sting of the claw marks on his naked skin. But the pain was less than he anticipated it to be, so he ignored it easily. He turned over and looked at Victor’s sleeping face for a moment, noting how deeply under the man was. Creed was usually a light sleepier, vigilant and ready to pounce. He must have been more tired than he let on, and Timmy wondered where he had been all this time and what had kept him.

                Outside the warm darkness of the den, the young clone listened to the familiar sound of night. The chirp of insects, the crawling and skittering of small nocturnal things, whimpers and whines from other prisoners within the Sanctuary, including the faint pop and bang of one of the Bamfs disappearing.

                After awhile he maneuvered himself out from under Sabretooth’s heavy arm and crawled out towards the entrance, red and black eyes quickly adjusting to the dark as his ears perked and strained to hear the smallest of sounds. A glance towards the artificial sky above him, which usually mimicked the weather beyond the glass dome above, gave him some sense of the time, which was nearly midnight.

                He heard the faint click of boots on the pathway outside enclosures and stood up stiffly in response, eyes wide like a watchful rabbit. As the sound of the boots came closer, he moved from the cave and bounded up the rocky hill towards the opening of the enclosure, making his way easily towards the glass.

                Dorian was right on time for his usual rounds, walking the halls to make sure that everything remained in order, while Sinister and the others were all resting back in the main house below.

                Timmy watched as a shadowed figure rounded the path towards him, holding a flashlight and walking with a quick, measured step. But even this made him frown. Lately Dorian’s stride was slower, and more heavy on one side than the other, suggesting a limp. His steps were quieter too, cautious and almost silent. Not like this approach.

                A second later his suspicions were confirmed and he frowned in confusion as another clone came striding along, ignoring him completely until Timmy hissed at him and chucked a small rock at the force field that divided them.

                Here the other Essex clone turned curiously, shining the light at the fledgling feral. “Where’s de other one?” Timmy demanded of the man, walking along the clear barrier wall and looking the new clone up and down like he was considering jumping out at him.

                The worker clone hardly reacted, having no sense of self preservation. “S13 isn’t it? My reports state that you should be asleep at this hour. What are you doing?”

                Timmy stepped closer to the glass, pressing his hands against it as he glared down the other clone. “The little one, who usually comes through here at night. Where is he? Where’s Dorian?”

                The grey skinned man paused thoughtfully, almost confused by the name. “Dorian? Ah Yes! Dr. McCoy’s special project.”

                Timmy frowned angrily at this, slapping his hands against the barrier, startling the worker. “Where is he?”

                “Last I recall, he was making his way to the community shower on the third floor. No doubt in need of cleaning himself up after another bout with the Doctor. He looked rather hobbled, as I recall. Left a nasty trail of blood on the floor that had to be cleaned up straight away.” He cocked his head faintly, blinking with those soulless eyes back at Timmy. “But why should that concern you, S13?”

                “Fuck off.” Timmy snapped at him, slapping his hands again. The worker clone stepped back, seeming to have no more time for the other man’s curious and aggressive behavior, “May I suggest you refrain from such open displays of aggression? I am authorized to sedate and detain you if it is required for the safety of yourself and the rest of the projects.”

                Timmy gave him that devilish grin, showing that his teeth had become sharper, more prone to tearing through flesh and muscle, even chewing the gristle off bone. “You welcome to _try_. Ain’t tasted one of you yet…”

                The man produced a small taser rod and held it up to warn Timmy, who responded by hissing angrily and backing up hurriedly into the dark shelter of a tree.

                The worker clone seemed to believe that this would suffice in subduing the creature for now and moved on with his rounds, his step as quick and sure as ever.

                Timmy waited until he heard the boot falls fading around the corner before he scaled the tree, leaping from its highest, sturdiest,  branch onto the next tree, which had overhanging limbs that dipped over the barrier walls. Timmy had discovered a weakness there, weeks ago, in which he could cross out into the open Sanctuary without triggering the security barriers that enveloped the rest of his environment.

                It was through this little weak spot he had been escaping for days, using it to climb into the LeBeau enclosure, and also out into the open pathways, where he could find other means of escape.

                He leapt from the branch and landed deftly upon the pathway floor with only a soft thud, sprawled on fingers and toes, hunched and ready to run. When he heard no sound of the sentry doubling back, he took off at run down the corridor, bare feet making almost no sound as he moved.

                He had learned many skills in stealth from hunting with Creed. But since his absence, Timmy had learned an entirely new technique as well, one that allowed him to move fast and nearly unseen. His small thin body helped to contribute to this allowing him to hide in crevices, alcoves and press himself into the shadows to remain unseen.

                He could also climb now, swiftly and deftly, unafraid of falling, though he had no special advantage to help keep him aloft. Only the intense will to not be caught.

                Once outside the Sanctuary, he kept close to the wall and avoided the elevator. Not only would the sound of the doors more than likely alarm the night watch, but there were cameras inside. Instead, the nimble fugitive made his way to the ill-used stair well, that was hardly ever traveled. The steps were narrow and unsafe, with no rail or guard to protect anyone from falling down the spiraling center to crash to the ground four stories down.

                But Timmy took them two at a time, feeling his adrenaline begin to spike as he made his way down to the next floor. Here Hans lurked often, at all hours of the night, and dozens of worker clones continued Essex’s research and experiments going nonstop.

                In the past, he had avoided this floor for that very reason, opting to make his way across the adjoining bridge to parts of the main house, usually to spy on the Marauders in hopes of hearing news of Victor.

                But tonight he had no choice.

                The idea of Dorian, damaged and possibly in need of help had put a hot knot in his stomach. He’d become all too familiar with this sensation, this new and very human emotion. Fear and dread. It was a curse to possess it and he knew it well. The person he’d been created from must have experienced it so acutely that Essex had no problem being able to program it into him.

                If that was even how of any of this worked. Timmy didn’t know any more. He had long since stopped being just a carbon copy of Remy LeBeau.

                He crept cautiously to the stairwell door, inching it open with his fingers and listening hard. There was plenty of sound, but it was all quiet, hushed, muffled by doors and other walls. The smell in the air was chemical and sterile and burned his nose, but he ignored the impulse to turn away, instead inching his way out into the open.

                The halls were lit by ugly, low hanging florescent lights that seemed to give everything a sickly green cast. There would be no shadows to hide in here. Timmy waited, hearing his own pulse thudding in his ears, until he was sure he sensed no immediate presence in the corridor.

                And then he ran.

                He had no idea where he was going, eyes darting hurriedly ahead of him for any signs of where the shower in question might be. He made it about a yard before he heard a door open and someone coming around the corner, talking quietly.

                Panicked, he darted into the nearest open doorway,  which seemed much darker inside and flattened himself against the wall, crouched low, holding his breath.

                The pounding of his pulse in his ears was almost defining and his lungs burned in an effort not breathe. He felt the little hairs on his arms, and neck stand on end and the prickle of sweat on his skin. If it was Hans, he would be discovered in seconds.

                But the footsteps, neat and quick and measured just like before, passed him quickly by. After several second Timmy allowed himself a full breath and stood up again, and looked at his new surroundings.

                This new place was dark and looked to be closed off. There were laundry bins full of soiled fabrics, mostly lab coats and other such garments, pushed to one side of the room. Timmy inched his way deeper, and now that his pulse had finally stopped deafening him, he realized he could hear the sound of rushing water, muffled from a little further away.

                He followed the wall and found another door, where the sound was loudest and cautiously stepped inside, peeking around the corner again.

                Aside from the sound of water spattering upon the tile floor, there was the muffled sound of heavy breathing, occasionally interrupted by a hiccupping hitch in breath that stuttered for several seconds or a quiet groan.

                In the corner of the open wall of shower heads, Dorian was huddled, head bowed against the wall, inky black hair dripping down across his face. He man’s arms were wrapped around himself, as if trying to keep his skin from bursting apart and the sprawled position of his legs made it look as if he had fallen and slid down the wall and had been unable to rise again.

                There were marks all over the man’s pale skin, some faintly risen welts that were pale under the running water, others deep seeping wounds in ragged lines that stretched across inches of flesh.

                Timmy’s eyes widened in shock and he stood up, standing there in a sort of horrific state of shock without saying anything at all, his caution forgotten.

                After a moment or two, he moved forward, stepping into the puddling water on the floor around the drain. Only hearing the sound of his feet slapping against it seemed to alert the fallen man to his presence, and he looked up with wide, blood shot eyes and a quiet gasp.

                “Timothy?” he rasped. He lifted his head from the wall and stared back at him as if unsure he was real. “Timmy what…?”

                The other clone crouched beside him, eyes sweeping over his all his exposed hurts. He made a quiet little noise in the back of his throat, like an animal in distress, and reached to touch Dorian’s shoulder. The smaller man visibly jolted and raised a hand as if in defense.

                _“Don’t!”_ he blurted out, voice ragged and rough. “D-don’t…there’s no need.”

                Timmy shook his head as if he didn’t understand. “You’re hurt. Real, real bad…let me help.”

                Dorian almost smiled. He had black eye and one of his cheek bones was scratched and faintly swollen. “You can’t help me, Timothy.”

                “Yes I can,” the other man insisted, trying to find a way to touch Dorian without aggravating one of the many hurts upon him. “Take you back to Victor, let him—“

                “Absolutely _not._ ”

                Timmy looked up at him with those big, wide helpless eyes and Dorian grit his teeth in pain and pressed his head against the wall tiling again. “You shouldn’t be here, Timothy. I’ve allowed you too many liberties, I’m afraid. You’re putting yourself in danger for no reason—“

                “Not no reason!” Timmy insisted, with far more conviction this time. He touched Dorian’s neck and shoulder lightly, trying to make eye contact with him again. “Why did they hurt you, prissy kitty? Why?”

                “Doctor McCoy was rather displeased that I had kept you out of his grasp for so long.”

                “He can’t say it was you—I stayed away, so he wouldn’t see!”

                “I’m afraid it wasn’t enough,” the wounded man added quietly. He gripped Timmy’s hand in his own trembling one and carefully dislodged it. “But it’s alright. I knew the risk.”

                The other clone seemed deeply disturbed by this idea, shaking his head and shifting as if in agitation, unsure what to do. He looked at the rusty tinged water that continued to wash away from Dorian’s slumped frame, and noting the deep claw marks on the man’s thighs, the bruises on his hips that were distinctly shaped like large fingers and the darker red water that was puddling underneath.

                Finally Timmy let out something that was something between a yelp and whimper and put his arms around Dorian fully, pulling him against him.

                The initial contact made the smaller man jump and cry out in pain, faintly resisting. He wasn’t sure what Timmy meant by clinging to him this way, managing to gather his useless limbs together into his lap, face buried against his neck and shoulder.

                Dorian remained stiff and still, waiting for what was next. But Timmy did nothing other than claps him close and rub his back lightly, carefully of the larger wounds there. He seemed to sense the large knot of tension in his lower back and began to knead it with his palm, trying to ease the ache.

                He was utterly befuddled by this and sat there blinking and silent for a moment. “Timothy, what are you doing?”

                “Make you feel better.”

                “What…I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

                Timmy gave a little sigh of what might have been frustration and pulled back, looking at Dorian closely. “He won’t hurt you no more now. Gonna take you someplace, make you better. Okay?”

                “You mean…take me to the infirmary?”

                Timmy struggled with the word for only a moment and then nodded. “Right. Doctor place, I’ll take you there.”

                “That’s not—“

                “Hush kitty!” the other man muttered, standing up and managing to gather Dorian with him. When the smaller clone could not keep his feet, Timmy quickly picked him up in his arms. The wounded man moaned and shuddered, twitching as pains pronounced themselves.

                “I’m not decent…”

                “Hush,”

                Dripping wet, the pair made their way out of the showers and Timmy moved the smaller man towards one of the bins of laundry, finding a fresh towel which he tucked over the man. Dorian shivered and repressed another groan as the fabric raked over his raw skin. But he was grateful to be warm again and out of the water.

                He looked at Timmy again with blurry vision and grasped his arm lightly, “Leave me here, Timmy.”

                “No, I’ll take you to the doctor place—“

                “You mustn’t be seen with me. You’ve already taken great risk leaving the Sanctuary like this…please, if you’re caught it will be worse for both of us.”

                But the auburn haired feral shook his head stubbornly. “Not leaving you Dorian.”

                Using what energy he had left, the wounded man reached and clasped Timmy’s face between both of his palms. “Yes, you will. You will because the thought of you being caught and being punished, all for trying to help me, is much more than I can possibly withstand right now. Go back to Mr. Creed. Be safe. I’m begging you.”

                Timmy wrapped his arms around him again and this time Dorian found that it was less jarring. Even…what was the word? Comforting.

                “Timmy, I’m not important. Please, go now before you’re noticed.”

                “You saved me, helped me when there was no one else. Not even Victor. You _are_ important. Not leaving you alone.”

                Dorian was at a loss. He’d never experienced anything like this before. The idea of it seemed almost madness to him, that anyone should put his welfare above his own. After all, he was not really a person. He was…an experiment. A drone. Utterly expendable.

                He looked up again in that same quick, stiff movement like a deer in the wood. He was on his feet, still standing close to Dorian, who found himself almost reflexively reaching for his hand. Such a silly thing to do, he thought…

                Timmy made a quick movement then towards the doorway and Dorian tensed, sure they were about to be discovered. He could hear footsteps approaching. The other clone looked back at him for a moment, and then did the most absurd thing Dorian could imagine.

                He grabbed one of the laundry bins and hurled it over onto its side, causing a loud thud that would certainly draw attention.

                Stunned, the naked man sat there staring, until the other clone came bounding back towards him, bent and kissed his cheek swiftly, “You’ll be okay now,” and vanished behind a row of storage cabinets. Dorian stared after him, until he heard the sound of one of his fellow workers entering the room.

                “What’s this? What’s going on in here?”

                He didn’t answer, finding he was too dazed, confused and numb to really form words at this point, still feeling the faintly warm place where Timmy had kissed him on cheek.

                “16? 16 is that you?”

                He nodded dully at the other worker who stood over him. “Goodness, you’re a sight…best get you down to the infirmary and let them have a look at you. What was this, an accident? Caught by one of the experiments were you?”

                “No…Dr. McCoy…”

                “Oh right, yes! I had forgotten that. Most unfortunate for you. Come on, up you come,” the man other clone got his hands under his arms and forced him up, supporting his weight as they moved unsteadily towards the door.

                Dorian could feel Timmy’s eyes on him as he was shuffled away and he convinced himself not to look back, not to draw attention.  He could feel the last of his energy draining away, making him wondered if he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing.

                But even when they got him into a bed and sedated him as they tended his wounds, he could still replay Timmy’s concerned face over and over in his memory. And that was something, wasn’t it? That had to be worth _something._

 

**

                Timmy made his way back to the enclosure, constantly glancing over his shoulder, starting and stopping, hesitating more than he should. Twice he was nearly spotted by a passing worker, and he was almost certain that John Greycrow sensed him moving about in the shadows, yet chose to ignore him.

                By the time he made it back to the cave, his state of agitation was almost too much process. He fell on Creed, who was still sleeping heavily and shook him urgently.

                “Victor! Victor wake up!”

                Creed snarled at him like a lazy hound dog and opened his eye into a thin gold slit. “Whatdaya want shrimp?” he muttered.

                “Dorian…Dorian got hurt!”

                It seemed to take his Alpha a moment to register the name and the words that follow as if they didn’t belong in a sentence together. Slowly he sat up, looking at Timmy with dazed perplexity. “What are you on about?”

                The smaller man looked at him with agonizing frustration, and Victor was clearly reminded of Gambit. He gripped Creed’s thick forearm with both hands and actually managed to hoist the man upward. _“Please!_ He’s hurt! McCoy hurt him! You have to help!”

                Victor grunted and pulled back from his grasp. “What’s gotten into you? What do you care about that—“

                To Victor’s great surprise, Timmy actually bore his teeth at him, eyes full of tears, clearly struggling to control himself. “He saved me! He kept McCoy a _way_ from me, all this time! He’s not like de other clones! He’s different like me! I want to help him! _You_ should want to help him!”

                The words came out in a harsh snarling tumble, and as soon as they had fully escaped his lips, Timmy covered his mouth with both hands and backed away from Creed, instinctively knowing he had spoken out of turn.

                Creed blinked at him for a moment, not moving, not even visibly angry. He seemed momentarily stunned at his mate’s outburst, then he seemed to consider his next move, frowning tiredly. Slowly he stood and Timmy bowed his head, trying not to flinch.

                He felt the larger male lift his head, making him look him in the eye. “Where is he?”

                Timmy exhaled loudly with relief and was on his feet, tugging at Victor’s wrist. “The other clone took him to the doctor place. You go and check on him.”

                Victor pulled back. “What? How do you know?”

                “I let de other clone find him in the showers. Waited and hid until they took him. Hurry, I think it’s this way.”

                Victor didn’t move. “How did you get out?”

                Timmy turned and blinked at him. “I…just get out. I can climb you know.”

                His Alpha again seemed completely stunned. Timmy shifted from one foot to the other nervously, still vaguely tugging at his wrist.

                “If he’s in the infirmary now, there’s nothing I can do for ‘im. They’ll know how to fix ‘im up. Not me.”

                “But…what about McCoy?”

                “What about ‘im? Obviously he’s already taken his anger out on ‘im. If he didn’t kill ‘im, then I doubt he’ll make another move on him tonight. He’ll be safe where he is.”

                “But we have to—“

                “We,” Victor cut in sharply, grabbing Timmy’s arm in turn now and pulling him in close. “Take care of _ourselves._ Copy-cat knew the risks…better him then us.”

                Timmy shook his head, “No…no dat’s not fair…”

                “Fair? What makes you think that word’s got any pull around here, sweetheart?” He pulled Timmy in closer and stroked his cheek and his hair, trying to calm him and bring him back in line. “Only the strong survive in here. Don’t you know that by now?”

                “I was weak once.”

                Victor sighed softly. “Shrimp…”

                “Kitty…” he pleaded again, looking up at him. “Please help him.”

                Victor studied his face for a moment and sighed again, leaning down to kiss him and to nip at his ear and throat, thinking that something other than LeBeau’s looks must have been retained in his Beta’s core. This blind urge to the help the defenseless was decidedly unlike himself, and certainly far from anything he had taught his lover. The need must be fucking genetic.

               

                Eventually, he was able to calm Timmy down, guiding him back into their bed, holding him until he stopped fidgeting and fussing and finally fell asleep, sated only when Creed promised he would check on Dorian first thing in the morning.

                But even though he now had quiet, and he was still slightly lethargic from before, he found that sleep wouldn’t come to him. These new behaviors in Timmy were startling, impressive…perhaps worrisome. And then there was Dorian himself…

                Creed wasn’t sure of what to make of the whole ordeal. A worker drone, albeit a possibly defective one, suddenly takes it upon himself to risk life and limb helping one of Sinister’s experiments escape certain torture and death…for what?

                He was sure it couldn’t be simply because Creed had _asked._  Maybe if Dorian were a regular man, Victor might have chalked it up to that. He was an intimidating presence even at his most docile, and he usually he little trouble getting his way from ordinary people, who seemed to realize instinctively that he was dangerous.

                But the worker drones had no concept of intimidation. They feared no one except their creator and master. It didn’t make sense that Dorian would act solely out of fear of reprisal from Creed, especially when there was much more to fear from displeasing Sinister himself.

                Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. He left Timmy tucked safely away under his duster, sleeping heavily and made his way out of enclosure, pausing only to look up at the trees, trying to discern which might have been his beta’s escape route.

                The halls were silent and dark at this late hour, and even the night watchmen were scarce. Victor only saw glimpses of them between the shadows as he prowled the halls, his mind churning over, trying to decide what to do next. The more he thought about Dorian, the more the question of him burned in his thoughts. He needed to know what that awkward little drone was about…and why exactly his Beta had come to care about him so much.

                A familiar flicker of jealousy rose in his chest and burned in the back of his throat, causing a faint rumble to rise up through his lips as he grumbled. Was it possible that Dorian was after Timmy? He was a clone of Essex after all, and it was all too easy to recall Sinister’s constant fixation with LeBeau…

                But this idea was brushed off quickly. He didn’t think Dorian would have the balls or the brains to pull of a scheme like that. Nor did he seem to driven by any sort of carnal need. Unlike himself.

 

                When Creed looked up again, he realized that he was standing on the other side of the compound, out in the old part of the main house, at the edge of the old abandoned ballroom. The place was ghostly and silent and Victor avoided it. Usually the Marauders gathered here from time to time, holding their little meetings in the shadows. Creed never came…even if he was part of the team, he was somehow different from the rest of them now.

                His sensitive ears picked up on something then, making him pause as he made to retreat from what he thought was an empty hall. But he could hear voices, hushed and hurried, excitable from somewhere just outside.

                Creed followed the sound, sticking to the shadows, unsure of what or whom he might encounter there. As he came to the edge of the upper hall that opened up onto the balcony and court yard below, he now saw hurried movement rushing below.

                To his surprise, he caught a glimpse of Essex himself, walking hurriedly across the barren courtyard below. He was in unusual form tonight, Creed thought, dressed to the nines in strange Victorian clothing that did nothing to disavow Creed’s teasing perception of him as a vampire.

                Victor raised an eyebrow, wondering where the man could be going, and why it was exactly that he caught a strange change in his scent.

                There was another movement then that caught his eye and drew it away from Essex as he sauntered along. Something was moving just out of sight, following the Doctor from the shadows. Creed knew his smell in an instant and it confused him even further. Why was Dark Beast lurking in the dark, slinking after Sinister like some back alley pick-pocket?

                There was a heat and a muskiness that Victor also recognized with McCoy’s smell, one that made his nose crinkle and made him cringe inwardly. The other feral was obviously excited…and that’s when Victor recognized what was happening. This was a predator stalking his prey.

                A small voice in his mind told him to walk away now, quickly and quietly and forget what he had seen. But another, more insistent voice commanded him to remain and see how this strange tale would pan out.

                From his perch above, he watched as Essex continued his stroll, seeming to be completely unaware of his colleague’s approach, until Hans quite suddenly sprang from the dark and lunged at the man.

                Even Creed was startled by this, watching as the large, steel blue furred Mutant brutally grabbed the smaller male and flung him hard against the crumbling brick wall below. Sinister cried out quietly, dropping his walking stick and offering only the faintest of struggles as Hans hunched over him, one big clawed hand around his neck, the other braced against the brick.

                “A bit dangerous to be out walking at this hour, isn’t it?” the larger man rumbled and there was a wicked sort of playfulness in his snarl that Creed had not heard before.

                “Please,” Essex rasped. “Take whatever you want…just spare me my life.”

                “I don’t want money, my good man, though I’m sure you have plenty of it, judging by your fine tastes…”

                Hans raked one of his claws lightly down Essex’s chest, popping the buttons off the front of his waistcoat before reaching closer and ripping his tie from around his neck, casting it aside and leaning in to smell the man’s skin.

                Sinister gasped again, but there was a faint smile on his lips and he gripped one of Han’s thick shoulders, acting at first as though he would push him away, only to draw him in closer.

                “If it’s not my money you want…then what is it you desire?”

                “Let me show you…”

                Victor raised an eyebrow, his mouth falling open slightly. What the _hell_ was he watching?

                Sinister grasped loudly, but the sound seemed far from distressed. Rather it was far more wanton than anything. Victor felt a little smile creeping over his lips, moving slightly closer to get a better view at the scene below.

                Obviously it was just that; a scene. He was starting to realize that the scenarios that Essex used to force him and LeBeau to play out in his little simulator were not simply for experimentation or manipulation. They were obviously a big part of the man’s own desires and attractions.

                It was strange for him to see his employer, the fearsome and ruthless Mr. Sinister presented in this new light to him, as a carnal creature who apparently enjoyed not only brutalizing objects of his own twisted desires, but enjoyed _being_ brutalized himself.  Or at least, he liked the illusion.

                Suddenly Sinister didn’t seem so…Sinister.

                He laughed to himself quietly.

                But that was his mistake.

                The noise was obviously heard by Hans sensitive ears, and the large Mutant turned his head to find the source of the disturbance. His yellow eyes widened and then dilated as he caught of whiff of Creed’s smell for the first time and growled low.

                The blonde smirked at him, not at all sorry he’d interrupted their torrid foreplay, until Sinister turned his attention towards him as well.

                Instantly Victor felt a sharp stabbing pain in his mind that made him cry out.

                _What do you think you are doing?!_

                Victor fell back against the pillar, snarling and shaking his head as if he could dislodge the voice that was attacking his mind.

                _Get **out** of here you imbecile! GO!_

                Creed barked in pain as the telepathic influence left him and he staggered away from the scene, receding once more into the dark.

                He shuffled down the walk way, trying to make his way back into the main house, or to the bridge that lead to the tower, but suddenly there before him in the hall stood Essex himself, looking fiercely intimidating.

                Victor felt himself flung back, crashing against the stone banister above the ballroom below. He nearly went over, but instead simply crumpled at the edge, shaking off the shock and the dust.

                “Do you find intruding on my _private affairs_ amusing, Mr. Creed?”

                “Hey,” Victor grunted, “I didn’t mean to interrupt yer little show…”

                Essex glared at him darkly. “It occurs to me, Mr. Creed, that you have been allowed to take _far too many_ liberties as of late. First, you utterly _fail_ in your sole mission to dispose of Gambit. _Then_ you flee, gallivanting around without so much as a word to send back to me. You are afforded a second chance to eliminate your given target and you _still manage_ to fail, not once but _twice!_ Only to allow yourself to be captured by one of the world’s most sophisticated security forces, leaving me to waste time and energy to collect you. And after all that…you skulk about _my_ estate, as if you are beholden to no one.”

                He dragged the man forward with his telekinesis and dangled him above him. Victor was easily twice the man’s weight in muscle alone, but Sinister’s didn’t even break a sweat attempting to keep him in the air. “I think it’s high time you learn just exactly who you are beholden to, Victor Creed. I’m going to show you that even a man of strength and innate stubbornness like you, can be broken.”

                Victor had no reply he simply snarled at the man, who dropped him to the ground again and left him rasping for air. He shook the hair from his face and looked up, expecting to see Essex still looming over him, but he wasn’t there at all.

                He looked around, confused for a moment, and then decided not to press his luck. He got to his feet and made a hasty retreat back through the dark derelict halls of the compound.

 

**


	3. Chapter 3

 

**

 

                When he returned to the safety of his enclosure, he found Timmy right where he had left him, undisturbed by his approach. The large feral huddled down beside him on the matt, wrapping his arms around him and getting a deep inhale of his scent, hoping to calm of some his rattled nerves.

                Victor would never admit it, but Essex had spooked him. There weren’t many people Victor Creed feared, especially considering his healing factor. There was no death, no torment that he couldn’t (and probably hadn’t) faced down snarling, only to come clawing back to life to seek bloody satisfying revenge.

                But Essex and his associate, the deranged dimension hoping Dark Beast, managed to make him ill at ease, way down below the surface. Victor wasn’t sure why, really. Although his mind a was great deal more intact than his half-brother Logan’s was, there were still things that had been lost overtime, and over traumas and encounters with people like Essex and Stryker. Victor figured they were simply things best forgotten.

                But there was something about Essex and the way that he toyed with his victims over time, manipulating them to the point of not knowing what to expect to him, to even hoping at times to be saved or forgiven, only to be punished in some new way. Something about that resonated deep inside Victor’s mind and made him squirm.

                Timmy mumbled and rolled over in his arms, nuzzling into his neck and wrapping his arms around him. “Mmmm…kitty? You ok?” he mumbled, still mostly asleep.

                Creed clutched him tighter and exhaled heavily, head against the smaller man’s. “Shut up,” he mumbled quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

                His Beta obeyed with another sleepy sigh, but Victor laid awake for a while yet, willing away the little knot of worry that had twisted itself into his guts, before forcing it all from his mind and grudgingly falling asleep.

 

**

 

                The next day passed without incident, and Creed lurked about the enclosure, feeling lazy and disgruntled. Timmy wasn’t much help either. The restless clone paced back and forth and was constantly rushing to the wall, trying to get a glimpse of Dorian should he pass by.

                Finally, Victor became so irritated with his antsy behavior that he dragged the smaller man down from his perched position in his climbing tree.

                “You got something you want to tell me?” he growled.

                Timmy blinked at him, not quite understanding. Creed rolled his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. You and that Essex reject…what do you have going on with him?”

                Timmy cocked his head. “What?”

                The blonde growled in frustration. “Are you fucking him?”

                Timmy’s black and red eyes widened for a moment and then he looked down hurriedly, cheeks faintly pink. “N-no! No.”

                Creed sniffed at him, circling him faintly. He could tell that just the mention of it had gotten his beta’s blood pumping faster, but he didn’t detect any lie to his words. “But you wanna…”

                “No,” Timmy said again. “I can’t…unless you want me to.”

                Creed stilled, blinking. Despite the way he had molded the other man to his somewhat primitive way of thinking, it still took him by surprise now and again how much of it had actually stuck in his mind. Slowly a sly smile crossed his lips, showing the edges of his fangs. “Heh.”

                Timmy eyed him cautiously, trying to gage his reaction. “He would be good for de pack…” the beta offered. “He knows things. Hiding places, secret things in the buildings…could help us leave, maybe.” His voice was quiet, nervous and unsure, like a child’s. But Victor sensed that there was more than just impulse behind the words. He’d been thinking about this for awhile.

                “Maybe.” Creed admitted. “But I don’t know if I want to share you.”

                Timmy looked at him lovingly, “I’m yours, Victor. Just yours. But…if you like…I could play with him. To make you happy.”

                Creed chuckled at the thought, letting the smaller male slip up close to him, twisting his fingers in his hair, trying to entice and cajole. He really had created a monster within Timmy, something that was always hungry for validation and desperate to please. Creed had never gotten to see what Timmy might do with another playmate, not since that time he had tried to corner Remy. It could prove very interesting.

                Victor took Timmy’s chin in his hand, his long clawed thumb nail playing lightly over the man’s lower lip. “How do you know we can trust him?” he purred. “How do you know that big eyed, grey-skinned copy isn’t just buttering you up, trying to get something out of you for Sinister?”

                Here Creed saw all the doubt leave Timmy’s eyes and he looked at his Alpha clearly. “I know him. He wouldn’t do that.”

                This answer was even more intriguing.

                “Alright, shrimp…I’ll consider it.” He leaned down and kissed Timmy and then gave him a quick, sharp nip on the neck, just to remind him of his place. The smaller man whimpered faintly and nuzzled his head against Creed’s chest.   He glanced up then and suddenly his grip on Victor’s thick arms tightened and he let out a small hiss of startled surprise.

                Creed looked up too, only to note that they were quite suddenly not alone. Standing at the edge of the enclosure was Greycrow, who regarded them with a bitter expression. “Sabretooth,” he muttered. “Essex wants to see you.”

                Victor growled low, rolling his eyes. “Tell ‘im to wait.”

                “I don’t think you want me to do that,” Scalphunter added a bit more firmly. Victor turned his attention toward him more fully. The two exchanged glances, and the Comanche man nodded his head, turning and motioning Creed to follow.

                Begrudgingly, the feral complied, motioning Timmy to go off and hide in his absence. Not that his Beta needed to be reminded.

                He caught up with Greycrow about half way down the hall, flanking him with a loud snarl of disapproval.

                “What are you, huh? His errand boy?” Creed barked.

                Scalphunter leered at him, “Not that I’d ever do you any favors, but maybe it’s in your best interest to shut yer damn mouth for once.” The man noted. “When the boss wants to see you alone, it only means one of two things.”

                “And you would know, wouldn’t you?”

                “You either fucked up, or he’s sending you to fuck someone else up.”

                “Probably wants to send me out to find some new play thing for him, now that yer friend LeBeau is gone.”

                John paused and suddenly thrust his armored hand against Creed’s ribs and Victor felt the heat of the gun inside warming up. “Yeah…about that…never got talk to you about what happened in those tunnels…”

                Victor chuckled at him, forcing the gun away. “A little late now for sympathy, don’t you think? I gutted that little swamp rat, and where were you? Not running to his rescue…”

                “I didn’t know you were going to do _that._ ”

                “But you knew I was gonna do _something._ ” Victor reminded him and relished the way that John’s eyes burned with shame. “Go on, Greycrow. Keep telling yourself you’re not a bad guy.”

                The black haired man turned, ready to attack, only to find himself interrupted by another voice that echoed clearly through the corridor. “That will be quite enough of that,” Sinister spoke sharply, having appeared just ahead of the two of them, as if materializing out of nowhere.  He glared from one man to the other, who begrudgingly stood down in his presence.

                “Thank you for fetching Mr. Creed, John. Now leave us. I need him with all his pieces intact.”

                Scalphunter nodded grudgingly and turned away with a scowl, disappearing back the way he came as Victor turned to the small, lean man who now stood before him. Essex seemed dressed down today, wearing his normal high black boots, and long black overcoat, edged with scarlet that matched the glowing red diamond in the center of his forehead, the focus point of his powers. But he was not as layered or polished as Creed usually recalled. In fact he looked almost…normal.

                The pale skinned Mutant gave him a surveying glance, gloved hands folded behind his back. “I hope that I didn’t _interrupt_ you in any of your baser pursuits…” He replied sourly.

                “I’ll forgive ya this once.” Victor snarked in return.

                Essex raised one neat dark brow at this answer and stiffened further, turning on heel. “Follow me, Mr. Creed.”

                “What for?”

                Essex paused, just for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at him. “Because I require you.” He answered, and gave a little flick of his finger. Victor felt himself suddenly pulled forward as if being propelled by an invisible force, which of course was his master’s telekinesis at work.

                Helpless to resist despite his strength, Victor allowed himself to be guided along the hallways until they reached a room he hadn’t often visited; Essex’s private study. The room, much like the others in the house, was cavernous and dark, filled with echoes of the old world that Victor could only remember hints of, and drenched in a sort of musty dark sense of foreboding and mystery.  There were shelves and shelves of books, along with strange jars filled with odd specimens, both human and otherwise, and artifacts that Creed wasn’t sure were of this world. All of it only added to the dark, otherworldly feel of the man called Mister Sinister, a genius and a mad man entwined closely in one immortal form.

                But the old tomes and the strange jars held little interest for Creed. They were uninteresting props at best. He stood in the middle of the floor, between two large sitting chairs that flanked the low burning fire place, gazing at the large black desk that sat in front of the high window, casting an even heavier shadow over the room.

                Essex really did have a flare for the dramatic, though whom he was trying to impress Creed couldn’t imagine. All his associates, save perhaps Hans, were far more simple creatures.

                “Have a seat,” Sinister instructed, his back to his henchmen, focus now roaming over his expansive library.

                “I’ll stand, thanks.” The feral muttered.

                Essex flicked one of his fingers at him and the larger man found himself compelled to sit, his limbs moving without his consent. Growling he sat back in one of the large green velvet chairs, claws digging at the arms, not caring that he was destroying the probably antiqued fabric.

                “Look,” Creed muttered, “If this is about my wandering in on your private little show for the hairball—“

                Another slight wave of Essex’s fingers and his mouth was forced shut.

                “I didn’t ask you to speak.”

                Creed growled, trying to force open his lips, but to no avail.

                Meanwhile, Sinister continued to peruse his library, though nothing seemed to quite catch his interest. “Victor, do you remember why it was that I hired you? It was because, of course, of your unique abilities. Your healing factor is almost unrivaled throughout the world, save for your troublesome sibling. But of course…healing factors, all though rare, are not all together impossible to find. Greycrow for instance, has a fairly strong one. Though I doubt he would survive as many things as you have.”

                The blonde snorted in mockery. Greycrow was a joke.

                “And then of course, I witnessed your very unique relationship with Gambit. And I wanted to see that acted out…organically. So I allowed you more freedoms than perhaps I should.”

                Victor rolled his eyes.

                “I say this because ever since then, I get this distinct feeling that you think you have the run of this place. And that my authority is easily overridden by your selfish, animalistic desires.” He glared at him sharply over his shoulder and Victor felt his lips loosen. “Being a feral mutant does not, as you believe, leave you at the top of the food chain. That position belongs to those of us who are the most evolved.”

                “Meaning you?” Creed sneered.

                Essex only smiled softly and returned to his search, leaving his guest to squirm uncomfortably in the silence. He could feel Essex on the edge of his thoughts, lying in wait. Creed’s mind was a mess, and even Victor would openly attest to it. He had lived a long, violent and tumultuous life, and had endured injures that should have killed him a hundred times over. Instead, these things had simply started to chip away at his sanity over the years, until there was more of animal to Victor than there had ever been of human. His thoughts were dark, jumbled, at times completely dissociative.

                Going through them, even for a master telepath like Essex, must be like walking through a mine field.

                Yet that didn’t seem to be the reason he hesitated.

                He was waiting for something to show itself.

                Seconds seem to tick away loudly and slowly, and little by little Creed felt his nerves prickle to the surface. Whatever punishment Sinister intended to dole out, he was more than willing to take. Anything to relieve this endless anticipation.

                “Ah!” Sinister gasped then with a smile, the sound startling Victor into sitting up a little straighter, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck bristling. The man retrieved from a high shelf a small dusty book with gold leaf binding and flipped through it fondly.  “My first edition. I had almost forgotten about it.” He glanced up at Creed. “Have you ever read _Dracula_ ?”

                Victor cocked his head, not sure he had heard right. “Huh?”

                “The novel, dear man. I assumed you were familiar with the text, since you do take such a fondness in giving me the charming nickname of the same title?”

                Again Essex was met with a blank stare, and he sighed quietly. “Really, Creed. So many decades walking this earth, and you can barely read a map. I know you aren’t _stupid…_ not entirely. You’re just brutishly lazy.”

                Victor shrugged. “I think I manage pretty well, seeing as how I was never schooled or nothing.”

                He felt a little rush to the head, a memory surged to the surface of himself as a very young boy, living in that awful one roomed cabin on the edge of the Howlett estate. He spent his days working his fingers to the bones, watching James spoiled and coddled, while his only reward for a hard days work was the off chance that his father didn’t beat him half to death…

                He growled and shook Essex from his mind, feeling himself shrink away from the contact, barriers forced up, defenses on high. He bared his teeth like a dog, “Stay out of there if you know what’s good for you.”

                “What a sad, covetous child you were.”  Essex replied, sitting himself down neatly on Victor’s lap, much to the man’s startled chagrin. “Not unlike the man you became. Only time distilled that sadness in cruelty and murderous rage.”

                “The _fuck_ are you doing.”

                “Hush.”

                Essex made himself comfortable against the large man, treating him as though he were nothing more than an object for his use, letting an idle hand wander across his thigh while he searched the faded words on the old yellowed paper of the novel in his hand.  Creed tried to squirm, but felt himself utterly paralyzed.  His skin crawled at the way Essex toyed with him and touched him, so casually and so possessively, as if Creed had never had a say in the matter.

                “Since you seem so fond of calling me a vampire, I thought I’d give you a taste of what dealing with one is like.”

                “You gonna bite me?” Creed joked.

                Essex reached up and lightly scratched his gloved fingers along the man’s jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re filthy.”

                He turned back to his book, “Ah, here it is.  You see, the story’s heroine, Mina Harker, despite all efforts by her companions, is finally made prey by the cunning Count. In which the esteemed Mr. Stoker writes;  _“With his left hand he held both Mrs Harker's hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare breast which was shown by his torn-open dress.”_

                He glanced back at Creed, who looked disturbed and puzzled. “Does that envoke any clarity for you, Mr. Creed?”

                “Why was he wearing a dress?”

                Essex frowned darkly and the diamond upon his forehead flashed brightly for a moment. Suddenly he turned, pinning Creed to the chair, grabbing a fist full of his long blonde hair and forcing his head back the chair as he glared into his startled features.

                Everything about Essex suddenly seemed menacing, fearsome and infinitely wicked, in a way in which Victor had never experienced before and he found himself trembling in spite of himself. “ _I am the predator here, Sabretooth, and you are the prey. Your strength, your powers, mean nothing in comparison to my own. I’m going to show you what real power is, and by the time I am through, you will be eating out of my palm. Do you understand?_ ”

                Victor said nothing, he just stared at those dark eyes, knowing that he had stepped in it good this time and that these were not empty threats. Essex was about to make him pay for every time he had put a toe out of line.

                Suddenly he could move again, and the dark cloud that was Sinister turned away, moving to his desk where he sat neatly and began combing through a rather large leather journal which lay open before him. “We’re done here.”

                Victor stood, and to his surprise found that his knees shook slightly. “Well…” he muttered, against his own better judgement. “Where’s the lightning strike?”

                The black haired man said nothing at first and then smiled that slow, eerie smirk of his. “Oh, I suspect you’ll know it when you see it.”

 

***

 

                Victor slunk back to his den, feeling daze from his encounter, almost unsure if he had dreamt the whole thing or not. Damn telepaths.

                Once back in his enclosure he found Timmy waiting for him anxiously. The smaller man rushed up to him, practically climbing up him and putting his arms around his thick neck. Timmy seemed to sense his Alpha’s strange state and looked at him closely with concern.

                “You okay? Dey hurt you?”

                “Naw,” Victor mumbled, dislodging the smaller man and brushing him aside faintly. “Just Sinister huffing and puffing, trying to put some scare into me.”

                Timmy looked nervous at the thought, his big eyes wider than before. Creed grunted and shuffled towards the den opening. His head felt battered after the encounter and he craved quiet and distraction.  “Don’t worry about it, shrimp. He’s just pissed cause I walked in on his little sexcapade with McCoy. Sick shit, I tell you what.”

                The other feral seemed slightly confused by the expression but followed his Alpha anyway. Creed pulled off his duster and dropped down onto his matt, feeling a ringing ache in his head that wouldn’t go away. He wanted to sleep, but every time he shut his eyes he could see Sinister’s face leering at him in that menacing way that made him shiver, unsure if it was memory or projection.

                Motherfucking telepaths.

                Timmy curled up close to him, resting his head on the man’s hard chest, listening to the comforting sound of Creed’s pulse beneath the thick muscles. He kissed his skin and drew little designs across it with his fingertips. Creed could smell fear on him, and uncertainty, the way his muscles were so taut under his naked tan skin and the way they shivered whenever he brushed his hand across them.

                “We’ll get out of here, shrimp. Don’t you worry about that.”

                Timmy lifted his head. “How?”

                “I’ll find a way.”

                Timmy suppressed a whimper and bowed his head to the man’s chest again. It was clear he was afraid, not just for himself but for Creed. Timmy had very little interaction with Essex that Victor knew of, but clearly he had lingering memories of the man and how he had come into existence.

                Creed brushed his thick, clawed fingers through his Beta’s hair to comfort him, and then nudged his head a little lower. Timmy took the hint quickly, moving down Creed’s torso until his cheek was resting just above the man’s groin, where his hands were now busy.

                Victor sighed, feeling some of the tension starting to be replaced by a new, more pleasurable kind as he felt Timmy lick him hotly, fingers eagerly gripping his not yet fully stiff cock, making him groan a little bit in response. He lightly raked his nails down the man’s spine, earning a little squeal and shiver from his lover in response that made the feral grin.

                He had such a good beta. At least there was that.

                He started drifting away into the sensations of it, not needing to guide or coax his lover at this point. He knew all of Creed’s hot spots well, and was ever eager to find new ways of pleasing him. He groaned again quietly as Timmy took him in deep, so much that he could feel the smooth pressure of the back of his throat, and he knotted his fingers in the man’s long hair.

                “Mr. Creed?”

                Victor tensed, nails scraping Timmy’s scalp and earning a little whimper of pain and as gasp as his lover lifted his head, mouth still wet and stared up in surprise towards the approaching voice.

                At first Creed was sure it was Essex, but realized quickly that his employer would never beckon him with such cautious hesitation, as if afraid of intruding upon his privacy. Which he certainly was.

                There was the stumbling sound of feet and Creed propped himself up on one elbow as a new figure appeared just beyond the shadowed opening of their den.

The clone, now called Dorian, stood there awkwardly among the tall grass and trees, looking spectacularly out of place as he stared into the dark opening beyond, for a moment confused and then wide eyed with surprise.

                “Oh! Oh dear!” He turned aside promptly, pale face flushed with embarrassment. “Forgive the intrusion! I had no idea…”

                “Better say what it is ya want, copy-cat.” Victor replied, voice heavy and husky with lust, seeming to struggle to make his words clear.

                “I, um…I-I’m so sorry…” Dorian stuttered. “It’s just that…Mister Sinister asked me to relay a message…but I shall come back later.”

                “Spit it out,” Creed grumbled, catching Dorian’s eye again and making him turn to look at him, despite his compromised position. Victor held Timmy in position, but the Beta seemed to have no intention of moving either.

                The clone’s eyes drifted from Creed’s glazed, golden eyes with their wide, dark pupils to Timmy’s wide red on black orbs, which were watching him lustfully, hand still gripped around Creed’s thick cock, stroking him slightly, his lips swollen and wet.

                Dorian felt a deep strange flutter in the pit of his stomach that made him gulp and he shifted uncomfortably.

                “M-Mister Essex…requires your attendance tomorrow evening, for a formal dinner.”

                His lip curled. “A what?”

                “A-uh-a formal dinner, with himself and Dr. McCoy in attendance. He says that he needs to discuss the future of your employment.”

                “Tell him to go fuck himself.”

                “I, um…” his eyes drifted to Timmy now, who was staring at the man intently as he leaned over Victor further and began to lick and suck him lightly. Dorian felt his mouth go dry.

                “I’m afraid such a response might only solicit rather painful repercussions.” He answered then. “For both yourself and possibly for Timothy as well. Essex is not a man to be refused.”

                Victor groaned as Timmy picked up the pace, stroking and sucking at once, eager to make him climax and defuse the tension in the other man. “Fine… _fine!_ Tell the bastard I’ll come to his little dinner party….mmmm…oh fuck me…”

                He closed his eyes and pushed Timmy’s head down a little further and the smaller man gasped slightly for air but complied, sucking hard and keeping his eyes on Dorian until he felt Victor’s thighs begin to twitch and shiver before he twisted his hair and cursed softly, filling his mouth.

                Timmy swallowed it all in two ragged gulps and then allowed himself to fall back on the man’s torso, panting and looking at Dorian beneath heavily hooded lids, licking his lips faintly.  “See something nice, prissy kitty?” the smaller man purred, stroking Victor’s stomach. The bigger man seemed to have drifted away, either not hearing or not caring about the other man’s continued presence.

                Dorian looked at him flushed and tight lipped and then nodded his head quickly, “I’ll let you both rest and recover. I’ll return in a few hours.”

                “We’ll miss you…” Timmy purred, but Dorian had already turned and rushed away. The beta laughed quietly nuzzling his face into Creed’s warm, sweat beaded skin, feeling the warm dull throb of his own unattended arousal. “See you soon.”

               

***


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

                They were not disturbed again until later that evening, when Essex made his own presence known within the Sanctuary, sending most of his menagerie of subjects fleeing into the dark corners of their confines in an attempt to hide from his cold gaze.

                Both ferals were out in the open upon his arrival, the smaller man hissing faintly and withdrawing into the background, out of immediate sight of his creature, while Victor stood, doing his best to look menacing but uninterested in his arrival.

                He could not help but be surprised however, when he realized that trailing just a few steps behind Sinister was another of his doppelgangers, one who was almost more recognizable by smell to the other man now than just sight.

                It was odd to see the two men; Doctor Essex and his wayward clone, once referred to as S-16, now known as Dorian Grey standing together as they were. Essex presented a much more commanding figure this time, wearing silver-white riding pants with his usual high black boots and a red silk lined coat with a high collar that made the blackness of his eyes and the ruby gleam of the diamond on his forehead shine brighter.

                Behind him, Dorian, looked ashen and muted, wearing his usual plain red and black suit that was a good deal less eloquent than his masters. He was holding a long garment bag and box in his hands. For a split second his eyes met Creed’s gold ones, but they turned quickly downward as Essex cleared his throat to speak.

                “Good evening, gentlemen.” He began, glancing between Victor and Timmy, who bared his sharpened teeth at him and sunk back further into the shelter of the trees, though they both knew that wouldn’t save him. He smirked faintly at the wild thing and then turned his gaze to Creed, tilting his head to look up at him better.

                “I trust you received my message about my dinner invitation?”

                “Yeah,” Creed spat. “What makes ya think I’ve got any interest in sitting a table with you?”

                “Dinner with your benefactor should present its self as an opportunity to better your position, Creed. Something you should be glad to have a chance at. Not something to be sneered at.”

                “LeBeau might have gone for that stuff, Sinister, but not me. You’ll have to get your kicks elsewhere.”

                Victor made to turn away from the wall that divided them, only to have Essex suddenly rush forward in a blur, reaching up to grab his jaw and yanking him down to his level, a look of murderous contempt on his face. “And since you have _denied me_ that chance, Mr. Creed, you will be taking his place.”

                Victor grunted and pulled away from the painful grip, feeling his bones and teeth ache in response and crouched there, panting slightly and massaging his bruised jawline. “I think I liked it better when you didn’t want to get your hands dirty with me,” he muttered.

                Essex laughed softly and turned to Dorian. “Sixteen has brought you the attire required for this evening’s engagement. I have instructed him to remain until you are fully dressed. A suit in your size was not easy to acquire, and I will be very crossed if it is ruined before I get to see you in it.”

                “I ain’t wearin no monkey suit for--!!” Victor started to bark. Then suddenly he was quite, dumb and docile, dropping back and standing there numbly with blank eyes. The diamond on Sinister’s forehead glowed softly.

                “There. Be a good boy now and do as you’re told. I’ll expect you meet us at the dinning room in forty-five minutes. Sixteen will escort you.”

                “Of course sir,” Victor replied in a dull, thoughtless tone that was exceptionally not like him. Both Timmy and Dorian cast looks of great concern towards the larger Mutant, though Dorian was careful not to let his master see.

                Sinister turned on heel then and left them all behind, folding his gloved hands neatly behind his back as he departed.

                The moment he was beyond the entrance of the Sanctuary, Timmy lunged forward and grabbed hold of Creed’s arm, tugging him towards him, cupping his face and trying to break him from the spell Sinister had cast over him. “Victor!? Victor are you--?”

                Creed groaned faintly and stumbled a bit, and to Dorian’s surprise the smaller feral was actually able to catch him and bring him safely to the ground, allowing the large man to rest his head against his shoulder. Creed’s big head lulled and he mumbled and groaned, feeling oddly weak and shaken from Essex’s effortless invasion into his mind. He sensed that the man has purposefully subdued him in order to make Dorian’s task easier, possibly less dangerous.

                Dorian moved forward as well, standing nervously beside the pair. “I believe he’s alright,” he said to the auburn haired clone, who was stroking Victor’s golden hair and trying to rouse him with little kisses and nuzzles against his skin.

                Timmy’s eyes turned upward to the other man’s, looking wide and anxious. “What’s he going to do to him? Nothin’ good ever comes from dat man…” he hugged Victor protectively, whimpering faintly.

                “I don’t know what exactly Doctor Essex has in store, but I don’t think it’s anything of a violent nature. I saw several of the other workers preparing the dinning room for dinner…” he glanced again at the larger feral. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

                Sabretooth was coming out of it then, shaking off the last bit of haze and sitting up with a grunt. “That fucking asshole…who does he think he is?”

                “I would have guessed the answer to that question would be quite obvious by now,” Dorian said grimly, looking to Creed, who seemed surprised to still find him there. The smaller man took in a quick breath, and although he felt a tremor in his knees and fingers, he looked sincerely at the men beside him and spoke firmly; “It will not behoove you to further upset him, Mr. Creed. For your own well being, and that of Timothy’s, I beg you to simply put on appearances for now and play along with the Doctor’s request. Surely a cunning creature like yourself will be able to turn whatever it is he has planned for you to your advantage later.”

                Victor eyed him cautiously for a moment, pupils widening and narrowing in turn as he took in the man’s scent and scrutinized his every little twitch or glance. “Helpful little copy-cat…” he muttered. He extended a clawed finger and pulled Dorian in close, earning a shiver from the smaller man. Timmy gripped his arm nervously, unsure of Creed’s intentions. “What’s on yer mind there, huh?”

                “I…I beg your pardon?” Dorian stammered quietly, unsure of how to respond. Being this close to Creed, who was already shirtless, dazed and vulnerable and yet somehow all the more menacing for it, made him feel suddenly tense and lightheaded.

                “What is it you want out of this?” Creed demanded. He had, of course, already picked up on the new scent that was overwhelming Dorian’s natural smell, a mixture of fear and lust, though the expression on the clone’s face was only that of nervous fascination.

                “We’ve been over this before,” Dorian said softly, unsure why he felt so timid suddenly. Victor continued to eye him for a moment or two, keeping his clawed finger twisted around his tie, trying to lean in closer to smell him better and earning a little shiver of excitement from the smaller man.

                The pale skinned man cleared his throat nervously and pulled away, straightening his tie and coat, unaware of how flushed his ashen cheeks now were. “There’s more pressing business at hand for the moment.” He unzipped the garment bag and revealed the suit inside.

                Victor cringed at it, shaking his head. “Oh no. No no no…I ain’t wearing a monkey suit…”

                Timmy looked up in confusion. “Monkey? Is it made out of—“

                Creed pressed hand over his mouth to silence him and gave him a playful little shove as he got himself back on his feet, snatching the suit from Dorian’s hand and scowling at it in distaste. He could already tell that it was an expensive purchase, and that somehow Essex must have had it tailored specifically for him. (A thought that was disturbing in itself.)

                He had worn suits like this before, though he could hardly recall the last time he’d had occasion to. The whole idea of it harkened back to a time where he worked more readily for people like Essex, people expected him to maintain a certain image to the public eye, while being as much of a monster as he liked in the dark.

                The blonde sniffed at the garment bitterly and tossed it back to Dorian. “Fine…” he muttered, reaching for his pants and yanking them down in one swift movement. “Essex wants me to play along, wants to try show off his big brain and his bigger ego...that’s fine. Let ‘em talk. He may have a big brain but I’d lay odds he’s got a thin, crushable skull just like anyone else.”

                As he spoke this, he stripped himself down to nothing, kicking his boots and pants aside. He didn’t see the way that Dorian was staring at him now, pink cheeked, wide-eyed, embarrassedly trying to avert his gaze, but somehow always returning for another glimpse of smooth tan skin that stretched tight over hard muscles.

                Timmy, however, _did_ notice.  And he knew the display well. He had been in Dorian’s shoes not so very long again, desiring but not understanding why or how. It put a new plethora of thoughts in his head, as his gaze darted between the other two men in front of him, one dying to be noticed but unsure why and the other completely self-absorbed, oblivious.

                But in his cunning little brain, the young Beta was already trying to form a plan to take advantage of the situation.

                “Quit yer gawking an help me with this,” Creed muttered to Dorian, who jumped slightly, having been stirred from his revere. Immediately the black haired man moved to do as requested, helping Creed to pull on his shirt and jacket, adjusting the cuffs and the buttons to his liking. Dorian’s gloved hands brushed along his skin, and he found that he liked the feel of it. It was warm and firm, but had a suppleness that reminded him of aged leather.

                It was so very different from his own skin, which he knew had been manufactured within a test tube just like all the others like him. Dorian was synthetic in a way. And Creed was…well, Creed was a wild, organic thing. And for reasons unknown to him, he coveted him. And that thought alone sent a shudder and tremor through his core and terrified him thoroughly.

                The bright, sour, tangy scent of fear that rippled off him made the large feral look at him more closely now, noting the strange way Dorian was gazing at him as if lost in his own thoughts. Victor knew desire when he saw it in another person, but Dorian was strange. The confused but deeply fascinated expression on his face reminded him far too much of how Timmy had been in the beginning.

                He glanced up at his Beta then, who was looking between the two of them from his lazy perch on a rock with a sort of wickedly hungry expression on his own face. Victor raised an eyebrow. All this was very new to him, and if Essex wasn’t waiting for him to come play tea party, he would have gladly whisked both of the smaller creatures off for a long _talk_ about things.

                But as it was, he didn’t have time for the long game. He caught Dorian’s wrist as he finished with the last buttons and brought him back to reality with a gasp. “Essex may get off on the cat and mouse game, sweetheart. But me? It just annoys the hell out of me. So how about you just tell me what it is you’re really after—“

                “I—“

                “Kitty,” Timmy began, but Victor shot him a look that demanded his silence before turning back to Dorian, whom he shook slightly.

                “You’re putting off all kinds of weird signals, clone. I know you’re up to something…Hans is always all over you, and you suddenly develop a sense of conscience, helping out Timmy and me. And then you show up at Essex’s coattails, pretending like you don’t know what they’re up to…”

                “Mr. Creed, I assure you--!”

                “Are you their mole? You trying to get in good with me, trying to trick me into something? That it?!”

                Dorian stammered and then pulled hastily away from Sabretooth, which in the struggle caused the arm of his suit to tear.  The pale skinned man stumbled towards in the exit of the enclosure, ruined jacket and shirt falling open in his haste to escape.

                Both Victor and Timmy rushed him, and to Creeds great surprise, Timmy jumped in front of the smaller man protectively and turned, bearing teeth at his Alpha. “Stop it, Victor! He won’t hurt us!”

                “Get out of the way!” Creed barked.

                Timmy seemed terribly torn, wilting and nervous under Victor’s harsh gaze, but unwilling to leave Dorian unprotected. Victor grunted in frustration, grabbed Timmy by the arm and tossed him aside, sending him rolling and stumbling in the dirt, before pinning Dorian’s much smaller figure to the wall.

                It was then that he saw the marks that marred the clone’s exposed skin. Creed recognized the bruises and wounds for what they were immediately; deep punctures that looked to be the result of fangs, healing tears in the shape of claw marks and bruises that left bright patterns in varying shades of purple, blue, black, red, yellow and green from his neck down across his chest.

                Dorian whimpered, trying to cover himself, not sure if he was more afraid or shamed then.

                “Why?” Creed asked quietly.

                The black haired man blinked at him. “What?”

                “Why did he do that to you?”

                 Dorian felt a strange tightness in his throat, that made it difficult to swallow or take a breath without burning, and when he spoke his voice wavered and his eyes burned. “It was my punishment. For not being forward with Dr. McCoy about Timothy’s whereabouts. For honoring your wishes and disobeying theirs.”

                Creed was speechless.

                Slowly he backed away from Dorian, allowing a little more space between them. He continued to eye the man silently until he reached to touch his face and draw him back. But Dorian denied him the contact and turned, marching quickly away from the enclosure and disappearing out the exit, heels of his shoes clicking loudly in the echoing silence.

                Victor looked after him, not really sure of what to make of the situation, until Timmy suddenly jumped on him from behind and bit him harshly on the shoulder.

                “OW! Fuck!” Creed shouted, pulling the smaller man off him and sending him rolling in the dirt again. Timmy spat grass and dust from his face and made to jump up again but Victor snarled and pinned him to the ground. “The FUCK is the matter with you!”

                “You leave him alone! You don’t hurt prissy kitty, he won’t hurt us!”

                “Are _you_ telling _me_ what to do?” Creed snarled dangerously. Timmy quivered, excited and frightened and angry all at once. Clenching his teeth he slowly relented his offense, baring his neck in submission to Creed, who gave him a harsh love bite in response and squeezed his arms harshly enough to make them bruise.

                “That’s what I thought.” He grumbled, sitting up and bruising the grass from his knees. Timmy staid on the ground whimpering quietly. “You stay here, out of sight. We’ll deal with this later.”

                Victor grunted and turned, leaving his Beta panting in the dirt, his attentions now turned on the task at hand. Timmy waited until his lover’s footsteps faded through the corridors and his lingering scent became fainter, before rolling onto his feet and making his own way out of the confinement of his enclosure, pausing at the entrance for a moment, trying to discern the direction that Dorian had traveled before stalking off into the barren corridors.

 

***

 

                Victor found himself walking up twisting staircase of the main house again, the feeling of that plush yet gaudy red carpet on the heels of his feet, the dark stained wood creaking faintly under his weight. It’d been a long time since he’d been in this part of the house. Not since he’d first arrived all that time ago with Gambit.

                Just the thought of the man put a sour taste in his mouth and made him grip the stairwell with aching force, hearing the wood groan in response. It was that stupid Cajun’s fault he was here, after all. If he hadn’t gotten so tangled up with LeBeau and his damn Charm, he would have remained a simple “freelance” agent of Sinister’s. Always in touch but never quite in reach.

                Now here he was, wearing a monkey suit and having to put with the egomaniac’s tantrums and demands day and night, always being watched, always being scrutinized. Weapon X was a better host than Sinister.

                As he made his way to the top, he found another figure standing there beneath the hazy gold tinged lamp light, smirking at him with his arms folded across his chest. “Well don’t you look all gussied up. Sinister does have standards after all.” Greycrow remarked, eyes glinting faintly as he saw Victor sneer, baring his fangs.

                “Fuck off.”

                “Sorry Creed. You don’t call the shots around here anymore. Or haven’t you noticed?”

                Victor loomed over him, ready to bite into that mess of flesh and metal and tear both to shreds. “You think you’ve got something over me now, Scalphunter? I don’t think so.”

                “Essex, obviously, has _other_ projects in mind for you these days,” the Comanche man replied. “I take care of the Marauders now. Since it seems, I can actually carry out _my_ objectives.”

                “Sure you can…” Victor said, letting his claws extend and reaching out to drum them lightly across the banister railing, “…murdering a bunch of reject muties is nice and clean and easy. Even facing off against the X-Men who tried to stop you…sure you got a few good rounds in before you put your tail between your legs and ran. But you and I _both_ know, that if you had my job…”

                John’s eyes flicked away and his frown deepened as he suddenly became defensive. Creed could sense his blood pressure rise faintly. “…did you ever really think you and LeBeau were gonna run off into the sunset somewhere?”

                “Fuck you.”

                “That’s what I thought.” Victor moved away, trudging down the hall with his hands in his pockets. “No hard feelings, Scalphunter. I think Phillipa is a fine second choice. So long as she never finds out that’s exactly what she is.”

                “Sure, pal. Just don’t pull a muscle tonight, getting on your knees for Essex.”

               

                Creed’s gaze darkened and his steps quickened as he made his way towards the dinning hall, feeling his teeth gnash and grind, his head filling with violent thoughts of mauling both Essex and Greycrow and scattering their remains across the artificial lawn outside and feeding the rest to Toad.

                He was so engrossed in homicidal fantasies in fact, that he almost didn’t notice that he had already arrived at his destination, until he felt his attention pulled in by the sight of yet another one of the Sinister clones, standing at the doorway entrance.

                “Mr. Creed? The Doctor is expecting you.”

                Victor felt his skin crawl as those words sunk in. He bristled and sneered and stepped inside the arched doorway as the other man held the door for him.

                What awaited him was more of what Creed expected. Never to be lacking in gawdy, gothic and gloomy atmosphere, Essex had laid out a long grand dining table, which was set for only three. This gave Victor a moment’s pause. Somehow he had expected that his employer would want a more dramatic audience for what he was sure was going to be a long lecture and a long list of consequences for Creed if he didn’t comply with whatever his latest scheme was.

                His host was standing away from the table then, nursing a large wine glass and staring into the fire. At first, he didn’t even seem to take notice of Creed, who stood their feeling completely out of place.

                “Where’s your hairy little pet?” Victor grunted without preamble.

                “Hans will be joining us shortly.” Sinister said lightly, swirling his glass faintly in his hand before glancing at his guest out of the corner of his eye. A strange smile lingered on his lips for a moment, and Victor felt his gaze on him. The feeling of those piercing eyes leering at him that way made him antsy and he looked away sharply, unconsciously pulling himself up to his full height and puffing out his chest, as if in an effort to look more powerful.

                There was a quiet chuckle from his host, who obviously recognized this primal act. “Well, well…you really do polish up nicely, Victor. One would hardly recognize you as the homicidal beast the world has become so well acquainted with.”

                “Whatever you say, doc.”

                The big blonde flopped into his chair and reached readily for a tray of roasted chicken, which he quickly tore in half and began to consume without much thought. He expected Sinister to bark something at him about manners, but instead he just stood there quietly at his elbow, smiling and sipping his wine.

                His scent was permeated with it; that dense dry scent of fermented grapes and berries, staining the pale skinned man’s lips faintly red, but also slightly coloring his cheeks. Victor raised an eyebrow as he chewed. His host was intoxicated.

                “How have you been enjoying your return to the fold?” Sinister asked. “I imagine, despite your recent lack of appreciation, that it suits you better than the holding cell I found you in?”

                “Marginally.” Victor muttered, swallowing a large gulp and spitting out bones onto his plate. He wanted to get a rise out of the man, for no other reason than it was in Victor’s nature to test limits in hopes of eliciting an emotional response. For a man with such a limited range of emotion, he craved seeing it in others.

                But Essex didn’t react. At least, not the way Victor thought he would. He sat down in his chair at the head of the table and eyed the man in that same quiet and unsettling manner, a smile remaining firmly upon his lips. “Victor,” he began again, the name coming out almost sluggishly at first, “What am I to do with you?”

                The feral grunted and raised an eyebrow.

                “I like to think I’ve been very generous with you,” the dark haired man continued. “Given you more than a fair chance to prove your worth. And…all things considered…you’ve performed well. But…you are not without your…challenges.”

                “I thought you liked challenges.” Sabretooth muttered.

                “I do.” Sinister answered, his smile expanding. Creed attempted to ignore it, but he could almost feel the burn of it on his skin and in his mind. He didn’t like the feel of this situation at all. Essex had something up his sleeve, he was sure of it. But it was too soon to make a move.

                “Your killing record is nearly without equal. You’re deadly, efficient, and have no problem getting your claws dirty with work others might find…distasteful. Your healing factor, of course, makes you virtually immortal. And that is an advantage few could refuse. Even high and mighty Charles Xavier had the good sense to scoop up your hapless brother. And I can promise you that it was not merely a charitable move, but a strategic one.”

                “Sounds to me like you’re trying to butter me up for some new mission.” Victor replied. “Fine. But my terms have changed.”

                “You really think you’re in a position to barter?”

                “Aren’t I? You just said yourself how indispensable I am to your little operation here. So maybe it’s time we rehashed my contract.” He grinned, feeling like Essex had just painted himself into a corner without realizing it.

                His blood curdled then, however, when Sinister erupted with laughter, falling back in his chair and pounding a fist on the table, shaking the candles that lit the antique china and crystal and made the wine slosh in their bottles.

                “You simple creature,” the telepath chortled, trying to catch his breath, hand upon his chest as fits of giggles still managed to escape him. “Such monumental gifts, bestowed upon such a small minded, covetous, carnal man. Fate never ceases to amaze me, the things it manages to create.” He took another drink, finishing the glass and quickly refilled it. “Have you never once asked yourself why it is you received such special attention from me, Creed? Have you never once asked yourself why it was I allowed you into my elite guild of mutants?”

                Victor shrugged, rolling his eyes.

                “Muscle, though artful and admittedly attractive is _nothing_ to a man of intellect.” He answered. The diamond upon his head gleamed faintly and Victor found himself suddenly frozen to his seat, despite his best efforts to resist the telepathic influence.

                “Each member of the Marauders was chosen specially for their unique talents. A motely crew, I admit. But effective. But Greycrow has more military experience than you, and he’s far more compliant. They are the front lines of our war against the Humans and all the other forces out there that think that Mutant kind is an abomination to be wiped from the Earth. But you and Gambit, however…you were meant for more.”

                “What?” Victor muttered tensely.

                Sinister was up then and moving close to him, turning Victor’s chair around so that the frozen man could look up at him. It was an awkward vantage point, as the feral mutant was so accustomed to looking down on others.

                “You thought that meeting Gambit in that bar was coincidence. did you?”

                “But…”

                “Orchestrated, my dear man. Greycrow made sure that it all went smoothly. Well…of course, there was a small twist. I didn’t exactly expect you to become quite so infatuated with LeBeau. Not at first. And I certainly never predicted you’d spare one of my reject projects to use as a flimsy substitute…”

                Victor felt that familiar rush of boiling, bloody rage rising in his chest and up through his throat, burning his muscles and aching to send his claws slicing through something. But he could do little more than blink at the man above him.

                “But you’re used to getting scraps, aren’t you? Especially while your brother gets the choice cuts?”

                Victor strained against the hold on him, trying to leap at Essex. He managed to jerk forward faintly, neck and hands straining, teeth and fangs bared but not quite fully unleashed. Sinister pushed him back with a faint push of his index finger, flattening him once more in his seat, before neatly settling himself on the man’s thick thigh.

                “You’re a monster, Victor. But monsters are made, not born. I would know. You’ve always been second best to your weak little half-sibling. You thought controlling him, dominating him, would heal that wound. But it never could, not really. Because even you know that he’s the better man.”

                “Shut up…”

                “Shhh,” Essex coed, pushing back Victor’s loose hair. “You took all that jealousy and turned it into rage. Rage so focused and so toxic…it would overwhelm most people with telepathic or empathetic abilities. Yet, somehow, both Mr. LeBeau and I managed to tolerate you. Even when Charles Xavier couldn’t.”

                Victor’s eyes widened.

                “Of course I knew about that,” he teased, twisting the man’s gold hair around his gloved finger. “I know every dirty, filthy, murderous thought you’ve ever had.”

                “Get off!” Victor rumbled.

                “Ah! But that’s usually easier said than done,” a new voice added, making them both look up. Hans had just entered the room from another door, still wearing his lab coat and goggles, both which were heavily blood stained.

                He moved straight towards Sinister, seeming unaffected by the compromised position he found him in. “Forgive my lateness,” the scientist began, “surgery ran a little longer than anticipated.”

                “Oh darling,” Sinister pouted, standing to greet his partner. “You’re covered in blood. Hardly formal dinner attire.”

                “I know dearest, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” Hans leaned forward and kissed Essex’s cheek, ear and neck, earning a little shiver of delight from the man and a groan of disgust from Creed. “Have you given him the good news yet?”

                “I was just about to.”

                Victor struggled again to release himself from Sinister’s influence, but it was no good.

                “You’ve always know you were different Victor, made for something greater than the rest of the mindless sheep who surround you. That’s why you’ve survived so long. Evolution has greater plans. Just as it has greater plans for Remy, Hans and myself. As well as a few others, yet to reveal themselves.”

                “Ugh, are you two talking about starting some kind of freaky cult thing? Cause I’m not into it.”

                “Soon you’ll understand, Victor. Just as Remy was being conditioned to take on his higher purpose, so now will you.”

                “The only higher purpose LeBeau had was to be your personal fuck boy,” Victor spat, raking his nails across the arm rests of his chair, sending little wood shavings fluttering to the carpet below. Sinister all but giggled again, nuzzling up against Creed and letting his free hand rove over the muscular man’s neck and chest, pressing a little too firmly and curiously.

                “That mouth of yours really needs to be put to better use,” Essex jeered. He looked Creed squarely in eye and Victor felt the world go suddenly too bright and hazy. For a moment, he felt as though he had stepped back, away from himself, viewing his actions as an outside party.

                He stared, helpless to do anything but watch, as he leaned in and devoured Sinister’s wine stained lips, earning a little moan from the smaller man at the roughness of the act. But the smile never left his face.

                Across from them, Hans had seated himself neatly in his own chair, helping himself to food and drink and watching this all with an excited gleam in his eye.

                After a long moment of suspense and helplessness, Victor felt himself suddenly surge back to awareness, in control of himself again. He wrenched back from Sinister’s grip, gasping and stunned, tasting the man’s wine in his mouth.

                “You fuckin’ freak!”

                “Don’t be so crass,” Sinister scolded, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know I am capable of far, far worse.”

                Victor paled slightly and Sinister nodded and continued to toy with his hair and clothing, twisting his gloved fingers in the necklace of fangs that hung around Creed’s neck like a trophy. “I’m going to put that raw rage of yours to good use, Victor. Give you the sense of purpose you never had before.”

                “You don’t own me, Essex.”

                “Don’t I?”

                Victor stood, knocking him aside, grabbed the table cloth and ripped it aside, sending wine, plates and candles scattering everywhere in a loud cacophony of breaking glass and clanging silver. But neither Hans nor Sinister looked moved by the display.

                “I’ve had enough of this! No one OWNS Victor Creed, not even you!”

                “Funny,” Hans said with quiet amusement, sipping his drink. “I do recall as similar outburst from a young Empath not so very long ago…”

                “I’m nothing like Gambit!” the feral barked, all but foaming at the mouth now, his heart racing, feeling trapped and cornered. “I won’t hesitate to kill you both!”

                Hans looked lazily at his partner, “Is he not the perfect candidate for the Horseman of War?”

                “In every way.”

                Here Victor paused, though his muscles were still taut and tense and he was ready to fight his way out of the room, out of the compound if necessary. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

                “The grander scheme of things.” Hans answered, standing at last. “Our lord and master Apocalypse will come to this world, this time, this place. When he does, I want everything to be ready.”

                “Motherfucker. This _is_ some batshit cult!”

                “Cults rely on false promises and fear,” Sinister answered. “But this…it’s nothing but the inescapable truth. Apocalypse will come. The Mutants will at last take what they are owed from this world. And you, Victor Creed, are going to be part of that glorious rebellion as one of his instruments of destruction.”

                “You’re both fucking nuts…”

                Hans breathed deep, eyes gleaming. He could smell Creed’s growing fear. “I’m afraid it’s far too late to back out now, Victor. We need you, more than ever. Three other horseman remain to be collected.”

                “One,” Sinister added, “you so foolishly allowed to escape. I expect you to fully rectify that error.”

                “What…LeBeau? A Horseman?!” Victor screeched. He started to laugh at the unnerving ridiculousness of it all. “Right, right, sure…who else is on your little club list eh? Magneto?”

                “Alas, no.” Sinister sighed. “But what I want to focus on right now, what I so desperately need you to get through that thick, Neanderthal skull of yours…is that this is your purpose for existing. And the sooner you cooperate with the process, the sooner you submit to our guidance…the sooner you’ll have the power you so crave.”

                “Fuck off.”

                Sinister’s diamond glowed brightly and Victor felt himself suddenly lifted and flung into the wall, where he made a sizable dent before crashing to the floor. It barely winded him, but the next moment he felt the sharp stabbing presence of Essex forcing his way into the chaotic depths of his mind, probing and searching, unearthing horrible memories and half forgotten pains of his past.

                “Your mind is such a mess Creed. It sickens me to lurk in it. But I will make myself at home here if I must. You cannot hide all your secrets, not from me. So many terrible things you’ve done. So many, many unforgivable acts. You think you are beyond caring, beyond redemption. You are, perhaps. But I know that under all this there’s still a small, weak, part of you that wants nothing more than to be given the praise you were always denied.”

                “Get out! GET OUT!”

                “A lost and unfortunate child…a jealous child. A lonely child. Things could have been different for you Creed. If only fate had been kinder.”

                “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

                Somehow, Victor managed to force Essex back, and as he came back to the presence, dizzy and shaking he saw Sinister fall against the ruined table, panting and shaken slightly. Hans came behind him to brace him, growling at Creed, but the telepath waved him off.

                “It’s fine, darling. I think we’ve made our point for now.” Sinister panted. Victor remained crouched on the floor, staring and snarling, breathing hard and sweating under his suit, claws digging into the floor. “You’re excused.”

 

**

 

                Timmy crept along the winding passageways, sinking further and further into dark recesses of the house, to places seldom traveled by any other than Mr. Sinister’s own feet. The further away he was from the enclosure, the more nervous he felt. Instinctively he knew that being found here could lead to dire circumstances.

                Yet his focus remained steadfastly upon Dorian.

                He could smell the other man’s scent, which was overwhelmed with by fear. Timmy’s nose would never be as sharp at discerning senses as a real feral, but even a novice would have been able to perceive Dorian’s distress.  After all the man had been through for he and Victor, Timmy found that he could not simply let him continue to fend for himself.

                Quite ironically, Sabretooth had managed to impart in Timmy a lesson that he himself had never really taken to heart; to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

                His search lead him down a dark and somewhat dank hall where there were nearly no lights and only one door at a short stretch of hall. Timmy hesitated in the shadows, having never been this far inside the house before and catching all sorts of odd, musty smells from the room below. He wasn’t sure he wanted to venture further, almost turning back, until he heard Dorian’s voice from the dark behind the half-opened door, followed by the sound of glass breaking.

 

                “Damn it all!” Dorian screeched at the sound of glass shattering against the cement floor, sprinkling it for a moment with glistening shards in the swaying light of the overhanging bulb. In his anxiousness he had crashed into one of the many shelves that lined this dank cellar of the house, used for storing old scientific samples of Sinister’s; things that had been pickled and dead for decades, dust fogged and forgotten.

                Whatever had been in the jar must have disintegrated long ago, for Dorian could see no sign of it, save for the murky slimy water that puddled under his boots. He took a moment, trying to collect himself, leaning against the cold cellar wall and breathing hard. He found that his eyes and his throat were hot and burning, and that strive though he might to take in a deep lung full of air, he just kept choking out sobs and curses.

                 He could not figure out which feeling was worse, the burning pang of humiliation or the endless frustration inside him that was boiling and rolling with no name and no explanation to be given. It was bad enough that Hans had discovered his treachery, and yet left him alive, always awaiting another attack, never safe from the twisted Doctor’s hands. But now that Sabretooth knew the extent of the abuse…somehow the shame was unbearable.

                Almost as unbearable as this new feeling that was building up in him, and had since even before Creed had returned. This desire to be looked after, cared for, wanted. He had never known such things were possible, not until he had seen them with his own eyes, in the way that Sabretooth looked after his wayward fledgling, who at his core, was just as much as a miscreation as Dorian thought himself to be. Dorian had seen the way that Timmy thrived under Creed’s attentions, how he had grown stronger for it. And he had also seen how the young clone had languished without it.

                “You’re not supposed to want this,” he muttered angrily to himself, not knowing that he was being watched by a curious pair of red and black eyes. “You’re not supposed to _want_ anything! You stupid, stupid man…you were created to serve. Nothing more.”

                He looked at the mess upon the floor and bent to scoop up the broken glass. “Try to remember…try to remember what it was like before. When things were simple…the world was smaller. It was easier then. Just go back to that…stop thinking about them…stop thinking about yourself.”

                “Don’t t’ink you can.”

                Dorian looked up, startled by a new voice and stared at Timmy, who had managed to creep down to the foot of the dark stairway, just at the edge of the pool of light created by the overhead lamps.

                For a moment the pale skinned man sputtered, speechless at the sight of the other, then furrowed his brow worriedly and stood up, discarding the shards of glass. “You must stop this,” he spoke, voice calm and firm. “I cannot protect you anymore, Timothy.  Our secret has been compromised…Dr. McCoy won’t hesitate to punish both of us if you are found outside the Sanctuary.”

                Timmy did not answer, moving his lanky figure into the light, closer to where Dorian stood, paying no mind to the debris on the floor. He looked Dorian up and down in pensive silence, and the smaller man felt himself unnerved by those probing eyes, the way they were so large and curious, seeking some depth inside him that he couldn’t confirm the existence of.

                “ _Go_ ,” Dorian muttered again, hearing a choked edge to his voice, his composure further cracking. “I don’t want you here. Don’t you understand? We weren’t created for this. We aren’t supposed to—“

                Timmy put his arms around him suddenly, clasping him tightly to his naked skin. Dorian gasped at the contact, his body tensing reflectively. But Timmy, of course, made no move to harm him. He only bowed his head and rested it against his.

                “Dorian,”

                Timmy hadn’t used his new name often, but something about the way he spoke in now, in that soft but steady tone stole his breath and made all his objections seem suddenly pointless.

                “We’re not like dem. We’re somet’ing else. Don’t know how, don’t know why. We just…are.”

                The black haired man looked up at him, unsure of how to respond. Timmy only smiled at him softly, still keeping him close. “I used to be scared too. But not anymore. Sinister made me, but I’m not his. You don’t have to be either…”

                “That’s…that’s…” Dorian stuttered, throat constricting again. “Impossible.”

                He tried to push Timmy away, but the other man simply tugged him back and surprised him further by leaning in to kiss him squarely on the mouth. Dorian whimpered faintly, pulling away. He knew that Timmy would not hurt him, but at the same time the man’s tender curiosities were almost too much for his already emotional state to handle.

                “Don’t have to be alone,” Timmy insisted. “Don’t have to be afraid.” He kissed Dorian over and over, softly but insistently, as if he’d gotten a taste of him and couldn’t help but want more. Dorian shivered, feeling that tight hot feeling in his gut announce itself again, feeling his fingers pulling Timmy in closer instead of pushing him away.

                The taller man nudged him into a corner, away from the mess upon the floor, allowing the wall to help him brace the smaller, shivering man against him. His gloved hands were gripped tightly at Timmy’s shoulders, unsure of what to do with themselves, and he found himself nudged up on the balls of his feet in order to accommodate his partner’s kisses.

                Timmy’s hands, meanwhile, were roving all along his torso, trying to get under his torn jacket and rumpled shirt, wanting to touch and explore skin. It was only when Dorian winced as Timmy’s eager fingers scraped too hard over tender bruises that he slowed his advances.

                “Sorry…” he mumbled quickly, looking at the wounded spot and frowning sympathetically. “Does it hurt bad?”

                The black haired man shook his head numbly, “Not terribly…” He moved Timmy’s hand back to his chest, letting it rest on a less battered area and letting out a little shivering sigh when he felt his warm palm rest there.

                Timmy smiled and leaned in closer, pushing his knee lightly between Dorian’s legs, trying to get them closer together. Dorian groaned quietly at the shift, feeling himself pushed up on his toes as Timmy started kissing his neck and jaw, hands continuing to find more skin to explore.

                His own hands were still locked in place around Timmy’s arms, afraid to move and no clue where to start, though he was starting to feel as if the other man wanted to be touched too. Quite nervously, he moved one hand from the feral clone’s naked, tattooed shoulder to his thigh, rubbing it up and down lightly.

                Timmy made a purring noise of approval and nudged himself closer until Dorian could feel the heat of his erection pressing against his own thigh. Here the smaller man gulped, letting his teeth clench for a moment. This was a sensation that he knew well while in Dark Beast’s clutches, and it usually meant that a great deal of pain was about to be forced upon him.

                He tensed further, half expecting Timmy to turn him around and force himself inside him. He started to shake visibly, and that’s when the feral looked at him carefully again. “Don’t be scared,” he coed. “I not hurt you like dat, I promise. I promise…”

                Dorian didn’t know what to do or say. All he had ever known in this situation was pain and fear.

                “Victor doesn’t hurt you when he…?”

                “No,” Timmy grinned. “He takes care of me. Makes me feel good.”

                “I don’t understand how…how _that_ can feel good.”

                Timmy kissed him again, more eagerly this time and Dorian relaxed a little in his arms. At least kissing was nice. Kissing was lovely in fact. He was glad Hans had never attempted it before.

                Slowly, making sure that Dorian could see him clearly, the taller man moved his hand down his stomach and past his waist band, letting his long fingers brush over his groin. Timmy felt a faint twitch there and steady warmth, but nothing compared to what he was experiencing himself, which was a hot needy throb that was begging to be satisfied.

                Dorian’s gloved fingers curled around his, giving the man a look dulled disappointment. “I’m afraid it…it just doesn’t…work that way.”

                Timmy blinked, as if considering this for a moment. “He made you like him? Kitty says…well, he says Sinister’s broken.”

                “I suppose, yes.”

                Dorian looked away, somewhat embarrassed. He expected Timmy to lose interest in him now, the whole ordeal brushed off as a mistake. Instead he felt the man kiss his neck and his ear, hand moving around his hip to squeeze the tight skin behind it lightly, grating their hips together momentarily. “ ‘S’okay…” Timmy mumbled, voice getting thick and more slurred the needier he grew. “Can still make you feel good.”

                He pulled the taller man against him then, hearing Timmy groan quietly at the friction and found that he _liked_ the sound of it, and the feel of the other man grinding against him, anxious to touch and be touched, but never demanding or forceful. “You already have.”

                He moved a hand to the warm, pulsing bulge that the feral was driving against his thigh, stroking it experimentally for a moment and then gripping it more firmly. Timmy whimpered and pushed against his palm, wanting more.

                His partner nodded, pulling down the front of the only bit of clothing the clone wore, allowing him to be exposed fully. Timmy whimpered again when Dorian gripped him with his gloved fingers, stroking him teasingly. The brunette let out another lustful groan and dropped his head against Dorian’s, breathing hard. He hadn’t expected the obviously inexperienced man to know how to touch him.

                “Does that feel…good?” Dorian asked, the words falling awkwardly from his lips.

                Timmy groaned quietly in affirmation, breathing harder as his hips swung forward. Dorian squeezed him a bit tighter, trying to recall what it was Hans liked on the few occasions he’d actually allowed him some participation in the act.  He glanced at the other man’s expression, noting that his eyes were heavy hooded and his cheeks were deep pink. Dorian had never seen that expression on someone’s face before. He felt another rare twitch from his own groin and stroked Timmy faster, kissing his cheek.

                “Is this how Victor makes you feel?” he asked.

                “Unh-huh…mmmmm…”  His hand reached around and grabbed Dorian’s back side again, lifting the man higher and grinding more directly against him. The black haired man groaned at the sudden shift, feeling that tight knot in his stomach grow even more taught, and a new sort of shiver zing through him when Timmy grabbed him from behind. He moaned loudly in spite of himself and Timmy growled something, pushing harder against him. “Mmmmmm…! Fuck...!”

                 Dorian gasped in spite of himself, picking up speed and actually smiling, elated by the sudden swell of feeling that was rising in him, a high that he had never achieved before. In their haste their feet slipped a bit on the slick floor, and Timmy whimpered, feeling glass slice across his naked heel.

                The pain only brought him closer to the edge, “Ahhh! Dorian! Fast, do it faster! Please, please!”

                Dorian obliged, kissing the man’s gasping mouth and pushing his own hips up against Timmy’s, feeling bones jar against each other, Timmy’s fingers digging more firmly into his flesh but still not enough to hurt.

                “Oh…oh…oh God what…what’s happening?” Dorian rasped. He felt like he was coming closer to something, something that felt his nerves were going nuts in an overwhelming new way. It terrified him but he wanted it, whatever it was.

                They were both breathing hard, rocking and bouncing against each other clumsily in the dark, the rest of the world forgotten, until Dorian suddenly saw a hint of golden eyes watching them from the darkness of the stairwell.

                He gasped sharply, gripping Timmy harder than he meant to in his sudden fear. Timmy let out a stuttering groan and bucked against him and Dorian felt a hot gush of climax splatter across his hand and wrist.

                His heart was fluttering, falling into the churning sea of his stomach. Timmy braced him and glanced over his shoulder, sensing the man’s fear.

                Another feral appeared there at the edge of the pool of light, but not the one that Dorian had expected.

                Victor stood there, wide eyed and gaping, seeming unsure of what to make of the scene before him.

                “Mr. Creed!” Dorian gasped.

                “Looks like someone got caught with their hand in the cookie jar…” Victor chuckled.

                Timmy, still flushed and twitching from orgasm, turned towards his Alpha. “Kitty, don’t---“ Victor grabbed him and kissed him hard and forcefully for a moment, then pulled back, sniffing him. He glanced at the man’s feet, and the source of what had lead him to the secluded cellar. “Yer bleedin’ everywhere. We’d better scat before Hans comes lookin…”

                Victor’s eyes turned on Dorian then, who was braced in the corner, looking like a terrified rabbit, cheeks still pink.  The bigger Mutant loomed over him for a minute, looking him up and down, sniffing him faintly, then grabbed his palm, which was still sticky from the aftermath of their foreplay. Still looking at the shaken clone, the blonde man licked him clean.

                Dorian’s cheeks turned deeper red and he shivered at the feel of Victor’s tongue against his skin. “Not as innocent as ya look, are ya?”

                “Stop it, kitty,” Timmy chided, tugging at Victor’s arm. “Leave him alone.”

                Creed grunted faintly, nudging his Beta back towards the steps. “Find me later, Copy Cat.” He said after a moment, “We should have a little chat.”

                “I…um…” Dorian stuttered. “Yes, Mr. Creed. Of course.”

               

**

                Creed wasted little time dragging his clone back to the safety of their enclosure, saying little and having no patient for Timmy’s faint protests or attempts to dislodge himself from Creed’s rough grip on him.

                The Beta knew of course, that he had crossed a line. But it was unclear as to how exactly his Alpha was taking it.

                “Stop it, Kitty,” the smaller man muttered, trying again to escape Victor’s forceful hands, “It wasn’t his fault! He didn’t do nothin’ wrong, we were just—“

                “Shut up!” Victor barked, forcing the smaller man back inside their enclosure. The echo of his harsh voice sent the other creatures trapped within the Sanctuary skittering nervously out of sight, or made them draw closer to the glass, hoping to see something of interest.

                Timmy stumbled across the grass for a moment and then crouched down, looking half ready to run and half ready to spread himself on his stomach and beg for mercy. It was a new conflict for the young feral, who still did not fully grasp that his thoughts, needs and desires existed independently of Creed’s.

                Victor stomped towards him, and Timmy whimpered when the man grabbed him and dragged him back up. But to his surprise, Creed did not hurt him. Instead he kissed him hard, crushing their mouths together, his tongue demanding dominance over his partner’s, who quickly submitted. The bigger man could still taste Dorian on Timmy’s lips, and he seemed be trying to steal every last bit that hung there.

                The thought of his Beta with anyone else should have infuriated him, but instead he found himself almost irrationally aroused by the idea. He hadn’t been sure if Timmy’s aggressive nature would endure in this area, considering all he had been through with Hans and really having no one lower on the food chain since Gambit had left…unless you counted some of the lesser Marauders. But that was scraping the barrel.

                But he had been impressed with what he had seen, and not just that Timmy obviously had complete control in the situation, but that the wayward clone seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself in turn.

                Victor groaned, pulling away and leaving Timmy gasping for air as he clamped his mouth onto the man’s neck, and shoulders, biting, kissing and licking his way down his naked torso, becoming intoxicated on the mix of smells on his skin.

                Creed needed the distraction. He needed something to ground him, to reassure him of his power and prowess and control…anything to wash out the lingering dread that Sinister had left him with.

                Timmy was on hands and knees in the dirt before he was fully aware of it, gasping and pleading for Creed to slow down, but his cries went unheard as Victor dominated him with little preparation or warning. Timmy wailed at being taken so roughly and so suddenly and Creed leaned over him, hips slamming against him rhythmically, “Thought I wouldn’t notice?”

                “Ah! Ahhh! Ha-haaaa non! No…not like that…unnnnghh…want him for us…for both of us!”

                Victor nodded, bracing the man but not relenting in his pace as he fucked him there in the middle of the field, “You should have waited for me,” Victor grunted and Timmy whimpered, shaking his head as he struggled to breath between the groans and grunts the man was forcing out of him.

                “Sorry kitty…couldn’t help it…I’m sorry…!”

                Victor pulled him back into his lap and kissed him, “Good boy…” he grunted. “Now you better cum for me..” He reached between the man’s legs and gripped him harshly, stroking him roughly as he continued to slam his hips forward.

                Timmy lost the ability to speak, wailing and grunting until Creed forced a second orgasm out of him, his eyes rolling and knees shaking, becoming limp in Victor’s thick hands. The big feral nodded and kissed and licked the little wounds he’d left on him apologetically, once he’d finished twice inside the smaller man.

                Then he laid there in the grass and dirt with him, petting him lovingly and cuddling him close, and Timmy went, glad for the affection.

                “So…you want him for the pack hmm?”

                Timmy nodded eagerly, “You do too…” he mumbled, much to Victor’s surprise, making the golden haired man raise an eyebrow. “Could tell…you were thinking about him…wanting to taste him…while you was fucking me…”

                “Jealous, shrimp?”

                “No…” Timmy shook his head, nuzzling Creed’s chest. “I know you always take care of me…”

                Victor said nothing but kissed the top of his head lightly, half hoping the dazed clone didn’t notice.

 

 

                Elsewhere in the facility, Dorian was reeling from the effects of the chance encounter as well. Creed had seemed intrigued, rather than angry at his discovery of their entanglement, but there was no mistaking his possessiveness either.

                Dorian considered whether or not he was playing with fire, allowing himself to become involved so intimately with Timmy that way. But whatever his concern, it was far paler than the dread he felt in McCoy’s presence. The two Ferals were both blood thirsty creatures, yet Creed remained strangely different from the Doctor. Dorian couldn’t explain the difference exactly, but it was there.

                And he found himself beginning to feel that…if he should belong to anyone…it should be Sabretooth. Whom at the very least seem to care for the things he owned. At least in comparison to that of Sinister and Dark Beast, who created servants and disposed of them just as easily.

                And if Timmy could become what he had, under Creed’s guidance…then certainly Dorian stood a chance for something better.

                What a breathless and terrifying thought.

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

***

 

                It was far later than usual, when Nathaniel Essex stirred from his bed. He felt the dim, incessant throb of a headache as he woke, followed by a stale, uncomfortable stiffness in his jaw and neck. The ache traveled further, unpleasantly, and he felt soreness and tenderness on his skin across his torso and thighs.

                His eyes opened more fully, glaring sharply across the room as he sat up, black hair falling in his face. His fingers knotted in the blankets and he scowled, scanning the room with both his eyes and his thoughts. McCoy was not present however, he must have slipped away early to his lab.

                Essex cursed quietly and pulled the blankets away, noting to his further irritation that he had been put to bed completely naked. Sure enough, there were bruises and teeth marks along his chest and thighs. Hans had taken absolute advantage of his intoxicated state last night.

                The telepath cursed again and covered himself quickly, sinking back into the bed, flinging one of the thick feather pillows across the room with a snarl.

                Despite his dysfunction, Sinister still craved sexual satisfaction. But only on his own terms. Even when he allowed his much larger, naturally aggressive partner turned lover to dominate him, Sinister was never really out of control. Which Hans knew, understood and usually relished.

                But, admittedly, Essex had been withholding of late. Losing Gambit had left him frustrated and distant, and intimacy was the very last thing on his mind. He had been teasing Hans without any promise of payoff for longer than he realized…obviously, the Doctor had seen an opportunity and seized it.

                He hurled the covers off him, eyes flashing, the diamond on his forehead throbbing with light. “HANS!” He shouted.

                He knew that the sound of his voice carried, and also that he had sent out a simultaneous telepathic pulse, which would spread across the entire compound. Hans would not be able to escape the call…

                “Nathaniel, don’t over react…” the voice was coming from the doorway, where the Doctor appeared presently, goggled still resting over his eyes, gloves covering his thick hands, and lab coat fixedly in place, though not without its usual mysterious smattering of blood.

                Sinister turned towards him and flung the man back through the door with a telekinetic thrust, sending him smashing into the wall, where he toppled a portrait and cracked the plaster.

                “I hope you enjoyed yourself, you host for flees…” he muttered bitterly, slamming the door before Hans could right himself and marching towards his private bath. He drew hot water into a large, black claw foot tub and slunk into it, sinking down beneath the water as soon as it was high enough, feeling it burn his skin slightly with the heat of it, but not caring. He felt like he needed a certain amount of sterilization at this point…

                He sat up eventually, only to see that Hans was once again at the door, looking ruffled and unamused. “I can explain.”

                Sinister leered at him from the water, where he remained submerged up to his neck, the rest of him only a milky outline. The long fingers of his left hand drummed along the gilded edge of the tub impatiently.  “Don’t waste my time,” he muttered, cool and somewhat melancholic. “We made arrangements, McCoy. I hate to think that after all this time I would actually have to remind you of the rules.”

                “Of course not, darling,” Dark Beast answered, finally removing his goggles and shaking some of the remaining dust from his head with a twitch of his cat-like ears. He leveled his gaze at Sinister, doing his best to look contrite…though not completely. “But you were quite insistent last night.”

                “I was intoxicated.”

                “I was very well aware of that fact, as were you. Have you considered that your anger might be a confused expression of your surprise, perhaps even embarrassment, at your openness to last night’s ventures?”

                “Don’t try to—“

                “Nathaniel,” the other interrupted, entering the room once more and coming to kneel next to the tub. “I know you are accustomed to a certain sense of control. And I am always more than happy to give myself over to your mastery, every time, without question. Last night was no different, just because we were not in mindscape.”

                Sinister glared suspiciously for a moment and then stood, stepping out of the bath and grabbing a towel to dry himself. Hans crouched, watching mutely, his animal senses trying to discern what turn his lover’s troubled mood would take.

                “I considered last night to be very much a gift,” the scientist added. “One perhaps, I should thank Creed for inspiring.”

                Sinister stiffened faintly.  “I thoroughly admit…I enjoy bending big dumb animals like Sabretooth to my whim. To see their brawn and their might, even their powers amount to nothing against my intellect…”

                “And…am I one of those big dumb animals?” Dark Beast ventured.

                “Hardly.”

                Essex turned towards him, having wrapped himself in his robe once more. He motioned the beast towards him, and Hans went, not really knowing or caring if Nathaniel was compelling him to do so or not. The smaller man rubbed against him, arms around him for a moment, hands roving over his powerful figure beneath the coat and the thick layer of fur. “You’re the perfect specimen of both worlds, darling. Astounding intellect and vision, encased in a body capable of rendering most obstacles meaningless.”

                Hans purred, and nuzzled him. “And I’m yours, Doctor. For whatever you need.”

                Sinister grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer to kiss him hard and possessively, allowing Hans to lift him slightly to close the gap between their considerable height difference.

                It was almost romantic, in it’s strange twisted way.

                But Sinister soon pulled back, quickly pulling free of his partner’s embrace, leaving the other man needy and hungry for more. Which was always how Sinister liked him best.

                “What I need right now, Doctor McCoy is a good strong tea with cream and some silence while I think.” He answered, moving from the bathroom back into his sleeping chamber, were he proceeded to disrobe and stand naked in front of his wardrobe, trying to discern which of his suits to wear.

                Hans stood close, but Nathaniel would not let him move any closer, and he could sense how painfully aroused the man was. Which just made him smile absently to himself.

                “Creed’s mind is already riddled with sloppy escape plans. Among a host of other things. We’re going to have to keep a tighter leash on him from now on; he’s too be watched around the clock. I want no movement he makes to go unnoticed.” He glanced at Hans over his shoulder as chose out a dark plum silk shirt, laying it against his pale bare skin, “But that’s asking far too much of your time. The workers, especially my private staff, will be more than suitable for such assignment. And I’m sure Scalphunter and his fellows would be glad to oversee his supervision as well.”

                Hans frowned faintly.

                “And what of our bartering chip? Number 13?”

                “We’ll use his sentimentality towards him as long as we can. If our re-education goes as planned…Creed will take care of the mess himself.”

                And here, surprisingly, Hans gave paused. “I should hate to think of such a specimen going to waste like that. ‘Timothy’, is after all, the only one of the LeBeau duplicates who managed to mature mentally. The others are more like hutch rabbits…dull and wide eyed. They die with exceptional ease as well.”

                Sinister paused, pulling on his suit pants slowly. “I’ll decide 13’s fate when the time comes. For now, my focus needs to be on Creed.”

                “Of course.”

 

**

 

                Sabretooth was reluctant to leave his lair that morning, feeling tense and restless as animals do before a storm. He could sense it; something was brewing within the dark heart of Sinister’s domain, something deeply unpleasant.

                Part of Creed’s natural instincts were nagging at him to find an excuse and get out of the compound before he was noticed. But doing so meant giving up much more than he was willing. From the edge of their cave, he glanced back at his partner, who was still sleeping.

                Timmy hadn’t stirred much that morning, which hadn’t surprised him. Creed hadn’t been able to rest much the night before, and his favorite way to expend that excess nervous energy was to fuck his Beta into a mindless mewling puddle on the floor. Creed could still see the bright red and purple bruises in the shape of his own fingers across the man’s lower thighs, waist and arms as he slept sprawled on the mat.

                A new scent drew his attention however, and he turned, surprised to see that someone was approaching him. He growled in warning, immediately falling into a defensive position, spotting the intruder on the hill just a few yards from the cave itself.

                It was Greycrow.

                Victor snorted and spat, relaxing, but only just. “What the fuck are you doing creeping around here, redskin?”

                John ignored the insult, glancing briefly past Creed at the sleeping figure he could just make out in the dark, and then nodding for the larger man to follow him.

                Reluctantly the feral stormed after him, figuring that was better to keep the danger away from Timmy, who would be no match for Scalphunter in a real fight.

                “How’d you get in here?” Victor barked at him once they reached the edge of the enclosure, where John stood waiting.

                The raven haired man rolled his eyes, “Some of us can be trusted with these things. Don’t be angry because you’re not one of them.”

                Victor snarled at him, baring fangs.  “State yer business or leave,” he showed his claws. “You have five seconds…”

                John smirked at him. “You’re wanted up in the main house.”

                Victor blinked his golden eyes a bit more slowly, brow furrowing more deeply. “Why?” he grumbled, without lowering his hand.

                The other shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know? It’s not my job to ask questions, just to follow orders.”

                “Yeah. You’re real good at that. Aint ya Johnnie?”

                The two men stared each other down for a moment, both silently sizing the other up, itching for an excuse to attack. But the Comanche man backed down first, stepping from the enclosure all together and back out onto the Sanctuary path. “Best be goin’ on your way. Wouldn’t want him to have to come and claim ya himself. We all know how that ends…”

                Victor stepped out after him and loomed over him for a minute, sensing some strange sense of knowing in the tan skinned man’s dark eyes. “What are you up to?”

                “Nothing that concerns you.” He answered. “Don’t worry though. I won’t go messing with your little pal in there. I’ll even keep an eye on him for you.”

                Victor started to bark a reply, only to feel a sudden insistent urge to leave the Sanctuary. He groaned, trying to resist and shake off what he recognized as Sinister’s telepathic pull on him, but it was useless despite his strength.

                “Daddy’s calling…” John teased as he loped away.

                Victor dragged his claws along the wall, glancing back over his shoulder as he vanished. “Keep smiling Greycrow…while you have teeth to do so.”

               

                Victor felt that sense of impending doom throbbing inside his core, like a pulsing ripple of anxiety and agitation. He hated this new sense of helplessness that Sinister had somehow managed to impose upon him. Not even Weapon X controlled him this completely.

                It was a problem that had to be rectified and soon, Victor decided, before things got worse. His eyes trailed the halls as he walked, feeling that Sinister’s pull on him had lessened, satisfied that he was obeying for the moment.

                He had no idea where the man was, and as he drew further along the corridors of the house, he found himself once more realizing he was being taken into the heart of the living quarters of the fiendish Doctor, which unsettled him greatly.

                The feral cast about almost helpless for signs of others, even the useless worker clones of Sinister, as if seeing some other form of life within the musty halls would assure him that he was not being drawn entirely into a hellish trap, from which he was unsure he could escape.

                As if in answer to this desire, he caught a glimpse of Dorian, passing from a somewhat concealed staircase, carrying a box of what looked to be old files. “Hey!” Victor called hastily, catching the smaller man by surprise and making him jump, the box shifting unsteadily in his hands.

                “Mr. Creed!”

                Victor paused, “What’s down here?” he asked hurriedly.

                “Here?” Dorian sputtered, just as surprised to see the feral. “Well, most of the rooms are Doctor Essex’s private living space, aside from the rooms reserved for Doctor McCoy, and the now empty room at the end of the hall where Mr. LeBeau was housed…”

                “Fuck.” Victor grunted. He moved closer to Dorian, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Look, I need a favor.”

                “I…I don’t know…”

                Victor tightened his grip on his arms faintly and Dorian gasped quietly, looking up into the man’s intense golden eyes, overwhelmed by how close he was.

                “Just listen,” he grunted. “I know you got some thing for Timmy…and maybe you got yer eye on bigger fish too. Maybe yer biting off a lot more than that little mouth of yours can chew…” Victor moved a hand from his arm to his chin , running a clawed thumb over Dorian’s pale lower lip.  “But if yer really interested in runnin’ with this pack, then I need you to listen. Go to the Sanctuary. Make sure that fucking techno freak doesn’t fuck with Timmy.”

                “I…”

                “You in or out, Copy Cat?”

                He could feel Sinister tugging at his mind and he winced, trying to ignore the urge, but knowing already he would fail.

                Finally Dorian nodded mutely and Victor released him, walking swiftly away.

                Dorian watched him vanish into the third door on the left, and held his breath a moment. This was Sinister’s bedroom…a room which he himself had never, ever even entered. He felt a deep pinch in chest, fearing for Sabretooth as well as himself.

                He hesitated then turned with a more purposeful step, leaving the box of files on the floor to be forgotten and made his way hurriedly to Sanctuary.

 

                Creed stepped inside the room, crinkling his nose at once at the smell. Unlike most of the house, which maintained that strange musty, antiqued smell you can sometimes find in great old historical landmarks or the polished, yet cluttered homes of aged and fading celebrities, Sinister’s room had a distinctly different scent.

                To the feral, it smelled strongly of old tea leaves, rubbing alcohol and the weird subtle smell of bergamot and steam.

                Victor realized the misty, watery scent was coming from another door beyond the large, cathedral ceiling of the bedroom, which was cracked.

                Creed knew well Sinister was in there and he grunted at him, snarling like a dog that smells a cat sneaking into his territory. He wanted to leave but his feet were firmly planted, and the only movement he felt he could make was forward. There was no getting out of this one.

                “Don’t be shy, Victor. I don’t like to be kept waiting.” Essex called.

                The blonde drew towards the door, resigning himself for the moment to the fate he couldn’t avoid. Torture was not new to him, and he feared none of it. Interrogation, “re-education”, what have you…he’d been through it all. Even Essex’s handsy performance last night…while unnerving…wasn’t enough to force him to bow his head and run, tail between his legs.

                Victor stepped into the room, to find it moist and cloudy with fresh steam from a large black marble, claw foot tub that in the center of the large room, filled with fresh water. Sinister was seated on a stool beside the filled tub, without his accustomed jacket or vest, wearing only a silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his gloves, his usual pants and boots and wearing a very troubling smirk.

                “I _hate_ to be kept waiting, Mr. Creed.”

                “Yeah?” Victor retorted, “and I hate when people piss on the floor at truck stop bathrooms. But what ya gonna do?”

                Essex almost smiled, though Victor doubted it was because of his comment.

                “Undress.”

                “Excuse you?”

                “Undress.” He commanded, a bit more firmly, eyes brightened by the red glow of his diamond.

                Victor shrugged off his duster, then moved thoughtlessly to undo his jeans and belt. In a moment he was completely naked, and it seemed to take a moment more for this fact to dawn on him.

                “Into the tub with you.”

                The feral man scowled at the bath, beginning to wonder if that was even what it truly was, or if Essex was simply projecting all of this.  Still he obeyed, feeling every muscle and nerve in his body tense and cry out at the idea.

                The water was hot, but not overly uncomfortable, and the tub was surprisingly deep, and the water already somewhat milky. He could tell that something had been added to it, such as salts or other weird purifiers, but his senses were boggled and couldn’t discern them clearly. He sat back in the water, leaning his back against the high slope, glaring at Essex who moved to face him better.

                Victor’s claws raked the gilded edges of the tub, making an awful scraping sound. “I ain’t the kind that does seduction,” he muttered. “—though don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered ya want to try. Got tired of Doctor Ape-Hands did ya?”

                Essex said nothing, leaning closer, then grabbed a fist full of Victor’s hair and forced him down in the bath, beneath the water, holding him there for a moment before allowing him to rise again. Victor came up sputtering and spitting, hair in his face, gnashing his teeth. “What the fuck--!”

                Down he went again, and Essex held him a little longer this time, showing surprising strength, before allowing the feral to surface again. Victor coughed and spat water, feeling his lungs burn faintly from the deprivation.

                “You’re a filthy, disgustingly crude creature. You’ve been allowed to go unchecked for far too long, Victor. I’m going to make something _useful_ out of you. Something I can mold. Something Apocalypse can be proud to call one of his Horsemen…”  

                “I’ll kill you!” Victor barked, reaching for his neck. He managed to circle his fingers around the man’s throat, but then felt himself frozen, unable to squeeze or crush.

                “You will try, of course. One day, you might even come close to succeeding.” The ebony haired man answered, gazing at his victim with unnerving tranquility in his voice.  “But my life, my existence, extends so much further than just this shell. In a way, I’m infinite. And wouldn’t you like to be a part of that? Wouldn’t you like to share in that great sense of power?”

                Victor didn’t answer, nor could he.  He found that he had no control over his own body, sitting there numbly in the tub, trembling faintly with his hand still wrapped around Sinister’s pale throat. He tried with all his energy to force movement into himself, to break the hold the insane villain had upon him but it was just no use.

                Eventually his hand dropped and he sunk back in the tub, feeling defeated.

                Essex smiled and moved a bit closer, removing one glove from his hand before reaching into the water, gliding his hand down Victor’s chest. “There we are. Doesn’t it feel better to let go of all that resistance?”

                The feral said nothing, but his breathing was heavy, anxious, and his eyes watched the smaller Mutant like a hawk. Sinister could feel the rush of his pulse as it quickened with nervousness, unsure of what was to come.

                It was exactly how he liked his prey.

                Sinister ran his fingers further down the man’s damp skin, reaching below the water. Victor quivered, trying to move away from his touch, but found himself unable to move even an inch.

                “Don’t you dare…”

                “Are you going to stop me?” Essex all but purred, clearly enjoying his little game. Victor cursed as he felt the man trail his hand further down and brush across him lightly, enticing a rush of blood through his loins that made him stiffen and thicken automatically with a groan.

                 Sinister seemed to marvel for a moment at how thick he was, and the sheer amount of length that filled his hand. It wasn’t as though he was discovering this for the first time of course, but experiencing it himself was something quite different.

                 It was easy to elicit physical responses from Creed, who’s healing factor seemed to give him a particular edge when it came to potency and readiness for sexual activities. But he could still feel the man’s mind resisting him; _hard._

                And despite the fact that, to Creed certainly, it was a battle of momentous will, Sinister barely registered it as more than a feeble of flailing, akin to a small child having a tantrum.

                “Don’t be so stubborn,” he cooed, “Maybe a bit of a scenery change will make it easier…”

                Victor blinked and suddenly Essex faded, as did the gilded steamy bath, bringing him instead to a very different scene.

                He was sitting in a hot spring in the mountains, snow still falling through the grey winter sky above them, with Logan next to him, dutifully curled next to him, stroking him and nuzzling and kissing his neck, grinding against his thigh, hungry for attention.

                Victor groaned loudly, blinking in amazement. The feel, and sound and even the smell of it was all so real that for a moment he thought that he had somehow slipped through time, or some other equally crazy turn of events, and found himself elsewhere.

                He turned to breathe the smell of Logan’s tangled black hair, getting a fist of it in his hand and pulling his head back from his neck in order to kiss him, earning a little whine from the younger feral. “Is this how you like it?” Logan asked.

                Victor grunted, giving him a nip on the shoulder as reward, pushing his hips up further into the man’s hand, urging him to stroke harder and faster. “You know how I like it, runt.”

                “No one makes you feel this good…do they?”

                “Heh,” Victor chuckled, “you’d better hope not.”

                “And what about me, mon cher?”

                Logan was gone as quickly as he appeared, his vision suddenly replaced by that of Remy LeBeau, who was seated on top of his thighs, naked and flushed, black on red eyes glowing with that faint magenta light as he rocked steadily back and forth, impaled completely on Creed’s cock, squeezing lightly as he rode him.

                Victor groaned again, bucking forward slightly, thighs twitching as he felt him suddenly jolted closer towards climax. “Oh fuck, oh shit….Cajun…dammit Cajun…that ass of yours…”

                “Fuck me, cher…Gambit make you feel good like no one can…”

                “Mmmmph! Oh shit, I’m gonna cum!”

                Remy leaned over him, teasing him by drawing a finger over his lips, “Not before I say so…”

                Victor howled, hips twitching, trying to go faster, trying to gain more friction, but it all seemed useless, release remained just out of reach, though the pleasure was cycling and crunching through his stomach and his loins until he felt like there was no way he could hold it back.

                “Dammit LeBeau…what’s gonna stop me from flipping you over and--?”

                Remy’s face changed in a strange a subtle way, and Victor recognized that he was not looking at Gambit but Timmy. Once again things around him had changed, and they were back in the enclosure, with Timmy on his hands and knees in the grass, quivering and rocking back against him, “Don’t cum yet,” his Beta mulled, breathless and flushed, “I’m not ready…wait for me…Kitty…wait for me?”

                Victor stuttered, wanting to push forward, to finally hit the edge and release this tension, but…he hesitated.

                “You’ll do that for me…won’t you?”

                “Yes…”

                “You’ll do anything I ask…won’t you?”

                Victor blinked. He was suddenly back in the tub and Essex was close, much to close, pulling him into a kiss as he worked the man to edge, yet refused to push him over. “Say it…” he snarled against Victor’s cheek, clearly more than a little aroused himself.

                Creed cried out, trying to get away but he remained frozen. His nerves were on fire from over stimulation and he just wanted to cum!

                “Say it Creed! Or I swear I’ll leave you like this for days until you’re dripping and drooling and gone mad with it! NOW SAY IT!”

                “Nnnngh….Y-yes…YES! YES!”

                Sinister grinned against his cheek, “Good boy.”

                Victor felt a wave of eruption and screamed, coming so hard that his hand actually cracked the marble sides of the tub as he thrashed. It seemed to last for several minutes, and as the tension began to relieve he felt himself blacking out, slipping under the water, until Essex caught his head and kept him afloat.

                Victor tried to curse at him, but he couldn’t quite form the words. He was exhausted, and breathing alone seemed a chore at the moment. He just wanted to rest for a moment, floating on a cloud of endorphin overdose.

 

***


	6. Chapter 6

***

 

                When Timmy had woke and found Victor gone, it was less than surprising to him. He was used to his Alpha taking off at a moment’s notice, either to deal with some task that Sinister had assigned him, or to harass the rest of the strange people who lurked about the facility.

                He had gone to the little river to clean himself, still bearing evidence of their last encounter all over his skin. Swimming had been a thing that came naturally to him, and he took to water like a fish. Or maybe an alligator, given his tenuous connections with the swamp dweller LeBeau.

                Timmy wondered sometimes…only to himself and only in those deep quiet moments of the night when he was left with nothing but his strange buzzing thoughts and half dreamed memories of a life he had never lived…how much of Remy’s personality actually had survived inside him?

                He glanced again towards the enclosure where the remaining clones of his kind were housed. They weren’t many now. The lot seemed to be slightly sturdier than the last, but no less defective, and they often died of what seemed like nothing at all. It seemed odd that Sinister, for all his genius, could not seem to manufacture a decent copy of his prized subject.

                Timmy wondered why that was, and what exactly made him so very different from the others. And if it was truly his differences that made Victor choose him as a mate.

                A soft sound alerted him to an unwelcomed presence within the enclosure, and he turned, tensed and ready to flee, to find the man called Greycrow standing a few feet away, watching him with intense dark eyes.

                The younger feral bared his teeth and growled at the man, then made to flee. There was a small popping sound from behind him, followed by a whir of something whipping through the air. Timmy cried out as something struck his leg and knocked his feet out from under him, sending him tumbling and rolling in the dirt.

                A sharp burning pain lanced up his left leg, and he groaned, reaching back to tear at the object which had tangled him. But as he reached back, Scalphunter’s armored hand came down and clamped over his wrist.

                “Settle, if ya know what’s good for ya.” He commanded, looking hard, but calmly at the smaller man.

                Timmy barked a curse at him and tried to wrench away, but the armored mutant was more than a match and flattened him to the ground, threatening to break his arm if he moved again. Timmy struggled under him, trying to get his knees up under the Comanche man a throw him off, but his attacker wouldn’t allow it.

                He felt panic starting to rise in his throat. He had never seen Scalphunter except from afar, and had no idea what to expect from him, but knowing his close ties to both Sinister and Dr. McCoy, he wasn’t willing to take any chances.

                He managed to get his other hand up and clawed John harshly across the face, ripping a swath of skin that reached from his cheek to the bridge of his nose. Greycrow hissed in pain and punched the smaller man hard, and Timmy felt the world spin and go dark for a moment.

                “Little bastard…” John muttered, wiping his wound, now that Timmy was stunned. “All I wanted was a look at ya, ya squirrelly little dumb ass…but what should I have expected, hmm? Creed’s made you sick and crazy. Can’t even call ya a proper Mutant…you’re just an animal.”

                Timmy groaned, hearing the words as if through a tunnel. John’s face swam in and out of focus, dark and the edges. He was looking at him strangely. “Guess I was fooling myself…hoping there was some part of him still alive in ya. But yer not him. You never were.”

                “Get off me…”

                John moved his hand from the man’s bruised and limp wrist to his throat and squeezed lightly. Timmy felt his vision fade a bit more as the man pressed on his main arteries, slowing the flow of blood to his brain, while at the same time choking off his air.  “Who’s gonna make me, tough guy?”

                “I’m afraid I will, sir.”

                John blinked, feeling something poking him in the back, right between his shoulder blades. He wasn’t quite sure what, it wasn’t sharp, but it was firm. It shook slightly, but he gathered quickly that this was because of the hands that were gripping it.

                He glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the odd clone know around the facility as Dorian Grey. He laughed, more out of surprise than anything else.

                “You are way out of your depth, little man. This doesn’t concern you.”

                “Step away from him, Mr. Greycrow.”

                “On who’s orders?”

                “Mine.”

                John started to laugh again, turning to get a better look at the smaller man. But he didn’t expect for Dorian to pull back his arms then, a large tree branch cocked in his hands, and swing at him with brutal, blunt force.

                It cracked across the side of Scalphunter’s head, and he flipped over, sprawled upon the ground, stunned and unmoving.

                “Holy shit!” Timmy gasped, propping himself up on his elbows, blinking back and forth in surprise between the downed man and the trembling pale figure above him, who looked somewhere between proud and terrified. “You got ‘im good!”

                “Nevermind that,” Dorian gasped, hurriedly discarding the branch as if it burned. He reached for Timmy’s hand and helped tug him to his feet, steadying him as they hurried away from Scalphunter’s sprawled figure. “You need to hide yourself. Go, wherever they can’t track you. I’ll…I’ll…alert Mr. Creed at once.”

                “No,” yet another voice said, causing both to feel a distinct twinge of dread ripple through them simultaneously. “I don’t think you will.”

                Timmy instinctively moved to protect the smaller man from the rapid approach of Dark Beast, but his effort was fruitless, as Hans simply leapt at the smaller man, grabbed his head roughly with his huge hands and slammed him bodily against the wall. Timmy went down like a rag doll and didn’t get up again.

                Dorian shouted in surprise and horror, moving to help, only to be grabbed up by the larger man. “Well, here I find you yet again,” the doctor replied with that dull, nonplused sigh of his, giving Dorian a rough little shake like a cat does a mouse. “Sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

                Normally there was a panicked burst of apology, or a vain plea for forgiveness and mercy. Instead Dorian only gave a short whimper, followed by a cry of what seemed almost like…outrage. Hans was surprised, almost pleasantly so.

                “This new rebellious streak in you is quite…intriguing. But I think it best we end it here.”

                “If you’re going to kill me, then do it!” Dorian found himself spitting, unable to hold back, fear making his tongue loose.

                The beast eyed him for a moment, as if considering. Then smiled. “No, no. I have a much better idea.”

 

**

                The headache Victor woke with made him feel like his skull had been cracked open like an egg. In fact, the pain was so acute that for several seconds he laid very still, trying to discern if this was in fact the case.

                However, he seemed very whole. He sat up, senses already firing, trying to discern the immediate danger. Surprisingly, he didn’t smell another presence in the room. Not currently.  But other smells lingered.

                Unsurprisingly Sinister’s signature stench was all over him, as well as that of his sterile photocopy army of drones, which all had the same weird sanitized stink. But there was something else…something older, faded. Almost a memory.

                Victor’s eyes adjusted to the dark room without effort, but it took a moment for his muddled mind to make sense of the half-forgotten surroundings. He had been in this room before, on this same bed.

                He snorted bitterly, shaking his head and rolling off the bed. “What the fucking hell…” he muttered, wiping his face nervously and trying to muffle the faded smell of Gambit from his senses. He turned at once towards the door, bristled and sweating. Waking up in that room was something akin to a nightmare, though Victor wasn’t really sure why.

                He tried the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. Victor cursed again and ripped at the knob, expecting to rip the entire thing off its hinges. Yet it remained firmly shut. He bared his teeth and slammed his thick hands against the wood, feeling it crack and splinter under the abuse, though it still refused to open.

                “ESSEX! I don’t know what you’re trying ta tell me, putting me in here but—“

                Out of the corner of his eye, he detected a tiny blinking red light, coming from the corner of the ceiling, half obscured by one of the arching beams. The feral rolled his eyes and snorted like a lion. “Oh you sick peeping fucker…but I knew that already.” He looked back at the room, unnerved at being trapped here.

                What did it mean? What kind of game was Sinister playing now? Surely he wasn’t attempting to play the guilt card. He would have known better than that. Victor didn’t have guilt…and certainly not over LeBeau…

                The room was the same gawdy, moody peacock colored mess that Victor remembered. And though Remy had never had any personal items within the room, it still carried the weight of his absence. To Creed, it almost felt like the room was somehow hungry without him. Left void by the departure of its former occupants suffering and oppression to feed off of.

                Victor felt a chill go down his spine. He did not want to be a replacement for that void, a new victim of Essex’s delusional endeavor to create acolytes of a fictional god of destruction. But obviously that was what the mad man had intended all along. And Victor had been too distracted to see it.

                He paced around the room, sizing up its dimensions, looking for weak spots. It was one of the few rooms with full length windows that over looked the artificial gardens below. Yet Creed had already ruled them out as an escape route. The bars were thick, and he had a feeling the glass was more than what it seemed.

                The fireplace was a no go either. Too narrow, even if he ripped it out brick by brick. It would take too long. Yet, surely there was a weak spot in the same wall, a pocket of space between the wood and plaster and brick. He could probably manage to break into the next room beyond before Essex could stop him.

                He heard the faint click of the camera turning, watching. He growled again and lifted his middle finger to it. “I know you’re in there, psycho!” he bellowed. “When I get outta here, you’d better hope you’re on the other side of the building, cause I’m gonna be coming for ya…”

               

                There was a noise on the other side of the door then that caught his attention, and he all but jumped as it was opened, ready to pounce on the unfortunate being on the other side. Unfortunately, all the feral got was swift burst from a stun gun to the chest, which sent him flat onto the floor, seizing and foaming for several seconds before fading.

                There was a panicked yelp, and then the door slammed shut again. Victor lifted his head, drooling faintly, vision blurred to see a new figure in the room.

                “Mr. Creed! I—“

                He recognized Dorian’s voice all too well, but that wasn’t what registered with him first. His burning and jolted senses were swiftly assaulted with a new, powerful odor. One that made his glazed eyes suddenly widen, and then dilate into deep dark orbs, with only a small sliver of gold remaining. His twitching limbs went utterly rigid, coiled and tense as the smell generated a hot burst of heat that traveled down his core like molten lead and settled in his groin, which twitched and then throbbed.

                His claws sunk into the floor, quickly shredding the oriental rug below him. A thick groan escaped his lips as his brain buzzed with a deep, animalistic urge.

                Across the room, the small, quivering image of Dorian looked back at him with confused dread. “Victor…Victor what’s wrong…?”

                Creed sucked in a deep breath through his nose and the throb in his cock intensified. He felt himself pressed hard into the floor, hips tense, wanting to roll and push, something to create enough friction to ease the new hungry ache that overwhelmed him.

                “What’d they do to ya?” he muttered, his voice a thick, snarled slur of lust and battered senses.

                “W-What?”

                “That smell…God that smell…”

                “Oh…yes…I’m not sure what it exactly…Doctor McCoy dosed me with it just before he…” Dorian  moved from the door nervously, “Here, let me help you.”

                “ _NO_.”

                The pale skinned man froze, startled by the urgency in the feral’s voice. “Stay…back.” He drew himself up on all fours, crouched like a tiger waiting to pounce, shivering and sweating, shaking his head as if trying to clear it, but unable to do so.

                “Pheromones…yer chokin’ me wit ‘em…”

                “Oh…oh no.”

                It was an act of distinct cruelty on Dark Beast’s part. Something akin to leaving a helpless, bleeding animal stranded in a pit of predators. There was no hope of escape. Nor any hope that Creed could ignore the urges that were rapidly overwhelming him.

                Victor grunted in frustration as Dorian’s fear scent spiked, almost managing to overwhelm the stink of pheromones that were driving him over the edge. His higher functions were dwindling all too quickly under the assault.

                “Perhaps…perhaps if I remove some of the soiled clothing…”

                Victor grunted sharply. “NO! Don’t…don’t do…anything. Just stay…stay real still…”

                The other man shuddered and emitted a little sob of dread. “Please…please don’t…I don’t want to die.” He rasped as Creed crept forward, looking for all the world like he would devour him. If that was his only worry…it wasn’t at all difficult to see the man’s throbbing erection in his jeans. Dorian felt tears in his eyes as he clenched his teeth, hoping it would at least be quick.

                Victor was on him then, pinning him to the door frame, pressed close with hands on either side of him, barring any means of escape. Dorian shouted in fear, unable to help himself, and Creed pushed him flat against the wall, leaning over him to scent his neck and shoulders, where the smell was most powerful.

                He could taste the man’s pounding pulse against his lips, smell the rush of blood through his system, the fresh sweat that dotted his pallid, reeking of distress and Hans’s bottled pheromone concentrate. He wanted to spread the man’s legs and fuck him there and then without prep or warning. Had Dorian been practically anyone else, he would have.

                But despite his state of hyper stimulation, Creed managed to maintain a small bit of control. “This was comin’ Copy Cat…we both knew it. But this ain’t how I wanted it…got that?”

                Dorian didn’t answer, remaining as still as possible as Victor’s mouth and nose brushed along his skin and his clawed hands quickly shredded his suit to useless ribbons, yet left his skin surprisingly unmarred. “I won’t hurt ya if I can help it…but don’t try to stop me…and don’t run. For fuck’s sake…don’t try to run from me.”

                The smaller man simply took a shaking breath, feeling Creed’s big hands roam across his skin, which still bore the not quite healed marks from his last encounter with McCoy. He kept waiting to be scratched, or bitten, or forced down on all fours the way the Doctor often treated him.

                Creed touch was far from soft and curious, the way Timmy’s had been. It had a mastery all its own, the kind of touch that commanded submission, but didn’t want to force it. Not yet anyway.

                The large feral, who towered over him, dropped down into a crouch in front of the man, pinning his arms at his sides as he started kissing and licking his way down his skin, biting lightly here and there.  Dorian shuddered, still unsure how to react.

                The sensations were still nerve racking but they weren’t unpleasant. Creed seemed eager to taste his skin, an idea he chalked up to being covered in the oily substance Hans had poured down his shirt. But it was starting to elicit another feeling, one he vaguely recognized from his encounter with Timmy.

                Creed worked his way down to the man’s naval and released one of his wrists long enough to palm him between his legs roughly, forcing them a bit further apart. Dorian gave a little whimper and Victor felt a warm pulse there, followed by a little rush of blood that filled the softness there. But was surprised when he didn’t feel the familiar twitch or hardening against his palm.

                Dorian looked down at him nervously. “I…I don’t…it doesn’t…”

                Victor grunted, some vague understanding entering his mind. But lack of an erection in his mate was far from a reason to stop. Not that the feral man could have if he wanted to at this point. He simply grunted, giving the man another faint squeeze there that made him squirm before turning him around and pulling himself up again.

                Dorian’s body all but vibrated under Creed’s palms he was so nervous. He bit his lip and tried not to make any sound at all, expecting to feel the all too familiar pain of having something forced inside him, ripping his insides and making him bleed.

                He felt Victor’s hot and now very exposed erection pressing against his tail bone, and he whimpered in spite of himself, as Creed felt perhaps even bigger than Hans did. But there came no hot, blinding pain or deep ache that would wrench screams from his throat.

                Victor bent over him again, one hand continuing to fondle him lightly between the legs, moving from his cock and back, rubbing lightly between his cheeks, while the other hand lightly circled his neck and made him lift his chin. “Don’t squirm and don’t fuss…I don’t want this to hurt ya.”

                Dorian nodded mutely.

                Creed kissed his cheek and then his ear and moved back down to the nape of his neck where he bit down softly, giving his throat a faint squeeze that earned a little gasp. His fingers were working his way inside the man, slow but demanding. But Dorian was tight, especially under the circumstances. There would be no way for Creed to penetrate him without causing pain and more than likely damage.

                He growled, frustrated and knowing he wasn’t going to be able to hold back much longer. He was already dripping pre-cum against the man’s skin, needing to get off, feeling himself heavy and swollen in his ways even he wouldn’t have suspected. What the fuck did Sinister do to him while he was out?

                Never mind that. He needed something that would help the process, and saliva was going to be a poor substitute. He glanced back up at the camera watching him again and snarled, then once more remembered where he was.

                 With effort, he detached himself momentarily from his partner, leaving the man actually gasping at the loss and grabbed at the bedside table, ripping the draw from its place and tossing it to the floor.

                A scattered assortment of trinkets tumbled to the floor, including playing cards, a few faded photos, and a bottle of lubricant. Count on Remy LeBeau to have such a thing handy in here, of all places.

                Creed returned to Dorian, flattening him once more and pulling his head back to deliver an eager little love bite to his neck and shoulder before kissing him roughly, slicking his hands up before returning them between the man’s spread legs.

                “Victor…whatever happens…I don’t blame you.”

                “Shut up,” Victor growled again, finally working his fingers deep enough inside the man to elicit a reaction other than a faint grimace. “They want a show…they’re gonna get one.”

                Dorian was gasping, mouth open and eyes shut, unsure what it was he was actually feeling. Hans had stretched him plenty of times, but it was never like this. Mostly it was uncomfortable and painful even with lube but this felt…slower, more careful and deliberate.

                Victor’s fingers weren’t just bluntly pounding into him, they were flexing, then curling and stretching to reach for something…

                Dorian felt a sudden jolt of feeling that ripped another cry from his lips, making his hips jump. Victor clamped a hand around one side, easing the movement and giving him more control. The feral grinned and licked his shoulder. “Sweet spot.”

                “Wh-wha…what are you doing to me?”

                “Do I really have to explain it?” He rubbed a little harder, moving the pads of his rough fingers in a circle. Dorian let out a long shuddering moan before crying out “Oh God! Oh God what is that! What are you doing! Ahhhhh—ha! Hahh! Viiiiiiictorrr!”

                Sabretooth’s dilated eyes widened a bit further, decoding the sound of those cries as something other than just lustful whines. “Copy Cat…ain’t you never felt this before? You’ve been fucked. I _know_ it. And Hans ain’t small…not like ya can’t reach it.”

                “Ahh! Ahh please!” Dorian was clawing the wall now, cheeks surprisingly red, hips rolling back against Victor’s fingers despite the stronger man’s efforts to hold them still.

                “Ain’t you ever…?” Victor knew the answer before he could finish the question. So instead he simply kissed the man again, continuing to stimulate the man with his fingers as he rubbed against him, using the added weight of his grinding to bring them both to the edge.

                Dorian let out a little scream as the tingling heat in his stomach and loins exploded abruptly without warning. “AHHHH! CREED!”

                He felt himself twitch and cum, something that had never happened to him before. He stared down between his legs, unsure what he was seeing as he felt Victor continue to thrust against him before exploding with a little growl of his own.

                Dorian felt the warm splatter of it across his back and shuddered quietly, feeling his knees quake. He started to fall, but Victor pulled him back against him instead, holding him up.

                Now that he had achieved at least some level of release, his head was slightly clearer. But the need hadn’t vanished. No, not by a long shot.

**

 

                Sinister had been waiting impatiently within the dark and somewhat crowded confines of Dr. McCoy’s security room, lazily eyeing all the different monitors that were laid out before him, documenting the daily comings and goings of his estate.

                Essex himself had no need for such security measures, not with his telepathic range. But it wasn’t beneficial for him to waste time or energy trying to monitor such things, and so Hans had eagerly taken over the task.

                He turned as McCoy abruptly entered the darkened room from behind him, an eager grin on his face, and moved swiftly towards the keyboard, minimizing all other monitors so that they could focus solely on the cameras within LeBeau’s old room, where Creed and Dorian were now trapped.

                “Hans, I don’t appreciate surprises. I hate them in fact. What was so urgent that you needed to drag me away from my—?”

                “Hush darling,” Hans insisted, “I think you’ll make an exception in this case.”

                Sinister squinted at the screen. “Isn’t that number 13? The age variant clone?” he asked suspiciously. He knew Hans had a fondness for that little experiment, but he hadn’t yet learned exactly how much so.

                He sat back in his seat, fixing Hans with a deadpan and somewhat annoyed gaze. “I really don’t have time for this sort of interruption, Doctor. My work with Creed needs to be quick and aggressive…pausing to let him play with his food…”

                McCoy pressed a thick blue finger to his lips, causing his eyes to widen in outrage for a moment. But before he could expression that burst of indulgency, his attention was captured by the scene before him.

                “Oh my…”

                “Fascinating, isn’t it?” Hans all but purred. “I know it’s not the same as watching him toy with your pet Cajun empath but…does this not offer a certain sense of…inclusiveness?”

                Essex said nothing but gazed at him slyly with a small reluctant smirk at the corner of his lips.  “Fine,” he said eventually. “We’ll see how this plays out.”

 

**

                Victor pulled the small, shaking man over to the bed, where they both collapsed, panting breathlessly for a moment. Dorian seemed to be having trouble catching his breath, his eyes still wide and blinking, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

                Creed didn’t speak, quick to curl around the winded being next to him, turning him over onto his back while the larger man settled over him, pulling the man’s hips up into his lap, getting his hands and arms around him in a way that both braced him and restrained him at once. He licked and kissed the man’s skin, nuzzling it warmly. The fear scent was starting to fade, replaced by the tangy musky scent of orgasm that Creed knew oh so well.

                “Stop…” Dorian panted, hesitantly putting a hand to Creed’s tangled blonde mane. “Please…I need a moment.”

                “A moment’s about all I can spare,” the feral grunted against his skin before nipping at it sharply, earning a surprised cry followed by a hiss of pleasure pain from his partner.

                “I don’t know what’s happening…what was that? What did you do to me?”

                Victor kissed him without answering, scraping a hand down his chest and stomach, marking him lightly in a way that left pale red marks on his skin but drew no blood. He reached between the man’s legs again, squeezing him and stroking him lightly to earn another rush of blood there and wipe away the lingering stickiness, which he licked away with a grin. “Did you enjoy that?”

                The dark eyed man nodded faintly, unsure how to respond, cheeks still flushed and head dizzy. Victor spread his legs a bit wider, moving one leg up over his shoulder and positioned himself between the pinned man’s legs again, finding that he needed little preparation this time.

                Dorian gasped sharply and grabbed at Victor’s thick arms as he felt the man push into him slowly. Again his heart leapt into his throat, expecting pain and agony to follow the movement. Victor grunted quietly and took his wrists, pinning them firm above his head, allowing himself to sink in further as he did and earn a cry from the coiled man beneath.

                “Don’t fight,” he reminded him, growling faintly in his ear. He nipped at the soft hollow behind it and made Dorian groan again, “Not that you have much choice…but trust me.”

                It might have been the first time Victor Creed had ever used those words with such sincerity. He swung his hips forward then, burying himself even further inside Dorian’s coiled form, earning a loud gasp and a groan.

                The noises being forced out of the smaller man seemed to shock him slightly each time they echoed in his own ears. Clearly he was used to trying to hold the sounds in, either by request or perhaps out of spite.

                The bigger man took his time now, driving himself in by degrees, careful to watch the other man’s reaction, which had always been one of his favorite parts of the experience. Dorian was tight and would clench around him convulsively each time Victor picked up the speed, driving deeper inside him. It was easy with his sizable girth to keep constant contact with the man’s prostate, no matter which direction he moved. Dorian seemed deeply overwhelmed by it, twitching and trying to push back against him.

                But Creed had complete control and wouldn’t let the man move more than half an inch without his say so. He drew it out as long as he could, but finally the need for a more substantial orgasm overcame his attempts to ease the man into the process. He started slamming into the man more roughly, blurring the movements of thrusting forward and moving out, feeling Dorian clench and twitch beneath him.

                Victor emitted a deep growl of satisfaction, feeling himself on the edge of another orgasm. Dorian was wincing faintly at the jarring pace, but could make no other sound than the quick gasps of breath that were pushed out of him until he felt Victor twist himself inside him and shudder. Grey felt a warm rush inside him that he had felt before and sighed quietly, remaining still until the larger man finished completely.

                He whimpered almost as the movement stopped. He had been feeling that strange hot knot in his stomach again and hadn’t wanted it to vanish just yet. But he accepted the idea immediately, and remained passive, waiting for Creed to decide to dismount.

                “Victor?” he asked quietly.

                “Mmm?” the feral grunted without lifting his head, hair hanging in his face. He kissed Dorian’s thigh softly and pulled out, spreading out on the tussled blankets beside him, keeping the man close in his possession.

                Dorian rolled towards him, feeling a deep but satisfying ache in his hips and back from the experience. He pushed the man’s long hair from his face, curious to see if his eyes still bore that same wild animal look they had before, or if the spell had been broken.

                Victor’s eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy and laborious. Dorian was almost worried, looking at him curiously, and moving in closer to move his hair away from his face. “Victor?”

                Creed’s eyes opened into a golden slit and he smiled, catching the grey-skinned man’s hand in his and pulling him in for a hungry kiss. “Don’t think you’re off the hook that easy…”

                Dorian chuckled nervously, though he wasn’t quite sure what this phrase meant. “The pheromones are still rather strong I see…”

                “Fuck the pheromones,” he answered, leaning up to lick the man’s neck from his collar bone to his jaw. “This was gonna happen anyway…those assholes weren’t counting on that I’m sure.”

                “Why…why me?”

                Victor chuckled that deep, dark rumble of his that spiked fear down the spines of most who heard it. Even Dorian felt a thrill go through him, but was surprised that he wasn’t afraid. Not truly.

                “Do ya really need me ta answer that?” he purred, moving in closer and pulling the smaller man against him possessively. There was still arousal in him, and despite having already emptied himself for the third time today, Creed wanted more.

                His unexpected partner, however, needed a moment to breathe. Creed after all, wasn’t the only one to find himself overwhelmed.

                When the larger feral moved in to kiss him again, Dorian shied away slightly, though he trembled faintly to do so. Hans never tolerated reluctance, so he wasn’t sure how Victor would react.

                Victor missed his lips and kissed his cheek and jaw instead, and settled his large hands on the smaller man’s ass, gripping him tightly and keeping him pressed close. Dorian whimpered faintly, but the sound was less excitable this time.

                The blonde nuzzled him, faintly scraping his teething along the man’s neck. Dorian shivered again and gripped the larger man tightly. “I’ve never…no one’s ever…what you did…”

                Victor sucked his skin lightly and gave his ass another squeeze. “You like it?”

                “Yes! Yes…it frightens me how much so.” He admitted. “Is it always supposed to feel like that?”

                “When yer with me, it will,” Creed nodded, though he was clearly caught between drowsiness and the inescapable need for physical satisfaction that consumed him. “I take care of what’s mine.”

                Dorian wasn’t sure quite how to process this statement and for a moment was quiet while Victor continued to lazily nuzzle and grope him, until at last his movements ceased almost entirely. Worried, the smaller male looked nervously at his face. But Creed had not succumb to any undetected lethal source. He was merely dozing for the moment, getting back his strength.

                Grey took this opportunity to wiggle out of his arms, limping from the bed and collapsing upon the purple velvet couch that sat in front of the fire place. He glanced back at Creed, noticing a thin gold slit of his eyes watching him predatorily.

                He was wise remain in full sight of the feral, and to remain still. Creed’s brain was still liable to snap back into that animalistic state of mind at any second if he wasn’t careful.

                His eyes moved from the large body on the bed to the tiny camera that was watching their movements from just above the door. He frowned at it darkly, considering throwing something at it to smash it, but in all honestly, he simply didn’t have the energy at the moment.

                The clone wondered what exactly Hans had expected to see happen to him. Most likely he had been hoping that Victor, in his crazed state of feral lust, would tear Dorian to ribbons. But it seemed an odd way to punish him, when Hans could have easily done so himself.

                It had not yet dawned on him that McCoy’s displeasure with his new alliance with Sabretooth was now boarding on jealousy. But even Hans was only vaguely aware of that feeling, as he watched them from the others side of the screen.

               

                “Why isn’t he moving?” Sinister asked, though his words came out slightly jarred. He was standing, bent partially against the computer console within Hans’s security room, watching the monitor with great interest.

                Meanwhile, McCoy was standing behind him, grinding himself slowly and hungrily against the fully dressed man, anxious for orgasm and grunting faintly with the denial of it.

                “He’s only resting…” Hans mumbled, his voice thick and more of grumble than his usual articulate notes. “Taking his time…ahhh…oh Nathaniel…please…”

                He was rubbing now more insistently upon the man, wishing he could be as rough and dominate with the man in reality as he was often allowed to be in the secure bubble of Sinister’s mindscape. But what Essex allowed to be done to his physical form was a very different matter. And, in all truthfulness, he enjoyed the sense of ownership and power that came with denying Hans more.

                “No,” Essex said calmly, and Hans felt himself further denied the pleasure he was so close to achieving. He growled bitterly, grabbing Sinister’s hips a bit harder and dragging them back against him.

                “You’ve given him repeated satisfaction, but not me…Nathaniel, even one such as I can only take so much taunting…”

                The vague promise of later retaliation sent a little shiver up Sinister’s spine and sent a rush of blood to his groin, causing a faint twitch and throb there. For a moment he paused, unsure if he should punish his companion for the frustrated threat or…

                He reached back and scratched his gloved fingers lightly under Hans’s thick furry chin, making him purr in spite of himself. “Is that anyway to talk to your Master?” he asked, pushing himself back against the larger Mutant teasingly.  “Jealousy does not become you.”

                Movement drew his eyes back to the screen, and the feral’s followed, eager to see how this would end.

               

                Dorian was trying to cover himself, tossing a blanket that had been strewn over the back of seat across his thighs in an effort to regain some modesty. His legs would not stop shaking and his insides continued to throb and ache faintly, but in a good way that left him almost missing the more powerful sensations.

                “Well, I think it’s over with now…it’s best we both try to rest. I’m sure we won’t be left unattended long,” he said, trying hard as ever to sound composed and certain of himself, though he felt anything but.

                He glanced towards the bathroom door and considered slipping inside. A quick wash would finish off the rest of the pheromone concentrate and Creed would be back in control again. But before he could try to push himself up and stand on his wobbling legs, his companion was up and slinking towards him, nostrils flaring slightly, as if he sensed what he was up to.

                “Victor, lie down, rest—“

                He only grunted a pinned him down, scooping the man into his lap and leaning in hungrily to devour his mouth again. Creed hugged him close, smelling and nuzzling, hands keeping his much smaller frame secure against his. Dorian would have called it affection, if he were more familiar with the term. But there was also a distinct hunger there that Creed’s primary motivation.

                “Ye under estimate my appetite,” he chuckled against the man’s jaw. He rubbed a hand between them and felt the other give a little jolt of pleasure followed by an awkward whimper. “Besides, considering how much ya spent on the first go, I’d say you’re not quite empty yet.”

                Dorian gulped as the larger man palmed him more roughly and then worked his fingers further underneath him, back between his cheeks and pressed easily inside.

                “Ahh!” his plaything gasped, wrapping his arms tightly around Creed’s neck and shoulders, raising up slightly out of reflex and need to allow more access. “Please…I don’t know if I can handle anymore…”

                “You can.”

                “No I don’t think—“

                “You _can._ ” The feral said more firmly, though it wasn’t quite as forceful or demanding as would be expected. “They always think they can’t do more…but it ain’t long till I’ve pushed them farther than they ever knew they could go.”

                He worked deeper, finding that sweet spot with two fingers this time. Dorian shuddered and moaned loudly, already feeling the return of that tightness in his stomach. “No…no I can’t…they’re watching…”

                “Let ‘em watch.”

                Creed kissed him again, tongue forcing his way into the man’s gasping mouth as fingers continued to work him up into another frenzy of twitching and moaning. Sabretooth enjoyed the way the man rocked up and down against his hand, trying to get more but always being denied complete control.

                But Dorian found that he didn’t need it. For once, he did not fear that his submission would end in the termination of his usefulness and ultimately his life. It was absurd. After all, obviously this situation had been designed to cause just that.  Yet Creed had turned their dual captor’s plan on it’s very head.

                “Mmmm…mmmm oh dear…oh dear it’s going to happen again!” Dorian rasped shrilly, digging his nails into Creed’s shoulders, drawing dark red lines there. Victor grinned, “Go on…no need to hold it back. I won’t let you anyway.”

                He moved his fingers a bit more steadily, in a quick circular motion until Dorian’s mouth fell open in a loud shout and he twitched and spilled again between them, though the amount was far less this time, and his partially limp erection ached from the release.

                Creed let the man come down from the high with his arms still wrapped tight around him in that possessive, protective hold, kissing his sweaty and shivering skin and enjoying the smells that permeated it.

                “You did good babe. Real good.” He mumbled, stroking the clone’s sweaty black hair.

                “I feel faint…” Dorain mumbled, his head tucked against Creed’s chest and shoulder, face deep red and eyes shut tightly.

                “You can do that later.”

                Creed pulled the exhausted man’s chin up and kissed him hungrily again. Grey wrapped an arm around his neck, feeling every part of himself shake, overloaded with the rush of adrenaline and endorphins. He could feel Victor, once more pressed hot and earnestly against his skin and touched him softly, rubbing his thumb over the head.

                The feral growled happily, wanting to grab the man’s hand and force it to stay there and stroke him. But he held back, best he could.

                “My word, you’re still…?”

                “Healing factor’s a bitch sometimes. Or a gift. Depends on my mood.” He smirked. Dorian gave him another light squeeze, attempting to mimics the way Creed has touched him.

                Even that had been different from Dark Beast’s methods.

                Dorian was starting to wonder if the two experiences were even the same basic act. They were suddenly starting to feel worlds apart to him.

                “What can I do for you?” Dorian asked into the man’s ear, quiet and almost lustful. Victor purred and shivered, looking at him with those molten gold eyes.

                “I’m not gonna last long….get on the floor.”

                The clone complied, reluctantly dislodging himself Victor’s grasp and sinking to his knees. He turned, as if place himself between the other man’s legs, head already bowing forward, but Victor caught his chin.

                “Not what I said.”

                “I…I’m sorry. I don’t understand what…”

                “Turn around.”

                Dorian gulped faintly and nodded and felt Creed slip down behind him, putting a heavy hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him down. “On hands and knees.”

                Here Dorian had started to shake again, lip quivering, gritting his teeth from making a noise of fear and disapproval. He knew this position better than others, and it had never brought him anything but pain and humiliation.

                His eyes watered. He was afraid.

                Creed moved behind him pressing against his backside, but not positioning himself to move inside. Instead he bent over the much smaller man, moving one hand under to hold his chest, while he spoke in his ear. “No point in lying…this is gonna be a little rougher.”

                “I-I understand.”

                “But I won’t make it hurt.”

                He kissed his neck and nuzzled him, hand pressed a bit harder against his chest, feeling his pulse. “I got ya. Understand?”

                Dorian nodded, though he wasn’t sure he did.

                Victor kissed his way down his spine, before pulling his hips up and back and rubbing against him more directly. “Breathe.”

                Dorian inhaled nervously just as the man positioned himself, and then pushed, fast and deep, jolting the smaller man. The air was forced out of him with a loud cry, but there was no pain that followed, just a deep sort of ache that came from feeling so full so quickly.

                One of his arms buckled almost immediately and he slipped forward on his face, feeling Creed draw back and then push forward at pounding pace that made him rasp and groan each time. There was a faint burn to the sensations now though, and vaguely Dorian came to realize it was because he was being so roughly stimulated while he was already spent.

                His rasps turned to whimpers, feeling almost frustrated with the pleasure, happy to let Creed fill him and use him but craving that high like before.

                “I can’t…” he mumbled again, hoping for reprieve. The stimulation was begging to be too much for his already battered senses to handle. Victor simply grunted and slammed deeper, reaching around to squeeze and stroke him.

                Dorian almost screamed, digging his nails into the rug. Victor felt thicker and hotter at this angle, and his touch was rough and forceful, and all of it was inescapable.

                “You’re done when I say you’re done, sweetheart.”

                “Victor! _Please!”_ Dorian cried, tears in his eyes, arms shaking, so close to the edge he couldn’t stand it. Behind him the larger man growled harshly and Dorian felt him empty inside him, just as Creed squeezed him harder.

                It all rushed forward in bright burst, ripping a loud cry from Dorian’s throat as hit orgasm yet again, his vision blurring white from the intensity of it. His arms finally gave out and he slumped against the floor, eyes closed and mouth open, breathing hard.

                Creed let out another satisfied chuckle and pulled back once he fully emptied himself, allowing Dorian to sink fully to the ground, a quivering mess of unmoving limbs. Creed laid down next to him on the floor, trying to catch his own breath, pulling the smaller figure close to him instinctively.

                “Hey, you still in there kitten?”

                Dorian’s eyes gazed up at him from under the fringe of his lashes for a moment, but he didn’t speak. Creed kissed his face softly and pulled the blanket from the couch to clean him up. He was feeling a bit hazy himself then, but it was well worth it.

                The pheromone scent was now a faint whiff of memory, replaced by the heavy smells of sex and sweat within the musty room. He had made it through the test…or whatever it was that Sinister and Hans had set up for them, and had remained remarkably in control, despite all his inclination not to. It was shocking, perhaps to the feral more than anyone.

                The dizzy feeling was starting to increase and Victor felt himself feeling sluggish, and stifled. Though he was still coming down from his own haze of endorphins, it didn’t take much for him to realize something was wrong. It was as if the oxygen with in the room was being shut off slowly, suffocating them by degrees.

                He looked worriedly down to Dorian and realized he was utterly conscious. With a snarl and a roar he looked back at the camera perched upon the ceiling, baring his fangs. He stood with effort, feeling his vision fading, and gathered Dorian up in one arm, ready to break down the door.

                But he didn’t take more than a step or two before he fell, still curled protectively around what he had claimed as his.

                “Not gonna let you take him, fuckers…you messed up. He’s mine now….” He wheezed.

                _“It’s not him you should be worried about.”_

 

***

                Creed jolted, Sinister’s disembodied voice ringing in his ears as he snapped back from unconsciousness. He expected to find himself back in the enclosure, or left where he had fallen on the floor of bedroom, with Dorian half crushed and probably suffocated underneath him.

                He groped for the smaller man, but he was gone. But he was very far from alone. He rolled to his hands and knees, eyes searching the odd, blurry dark that surrounded him. Wooden floor boards creaked under his weight, and as he sniffed the air, he didn’t detect any of the usual smells of Essex’s gothic dwelling.

                Instead the was cold, the kind of biting crispness that came on early winter mornings. Victor could smell the stale stink of liquor, the sweat of unwashed work boots and clothes, and the faintly burnt smell of ashes in the fire.

                Something deep within him in clenched as the room around him began to take shape around him. A one room cabin, with nothing to fill it but a lumpy old cot, just wide enough for two people, a table and two chairs and a fireplace that was in desperate need of being revived. Creed was on the floor in the corner, lying at the foot of that lumpy cot on a ragged bit of wool blanket that stunk of blood, sweat and other things.

                Victor felt his stomach twist and he sat up, claws fully extended, eyes narrowed into golden slits, jaw clenched and nostrils flared.

                This room, this place…he knew where he was, despite all the years he’d had to forget. Despite all the ways he’d allowed the world to _make_ him forget. He still remembered.

                Damn it all.

                He still remembered.

                He made for the door, not sure what was happening, and nearly tore it off the hinge to open it. He expected to fall into a run into the long grass that swept along side of the dirt path, to vanish into the thick pines and escape the way he had many times before.

                But his feet didn’t hit dirt.

                What greeted him on the other side of the door was not the fields that separated the dingy, four walled hell he had grown up in from the grand house where his brother had been raised.

                It was the house itself.

                Startled, Creed looked back, but the door was shut already behind him, and suddenly it didn’t seem as though he had been in the cabin at all, but had always been in the main house.

                But that wasn’t right…was it?

                “Victor.”

                Creed jolted, grunting and gnashing his teeth at the sound, swinging out a clawed hand as if in hopes of catching whoever might be trying to creep up behind him. But he was met only with air.

                “Better get yourself up here, boy.” The voice called.

                Victor shivered. Something wasn’t right about it. It was not quite the drunken, menacing slur of his father…but nor was it the tight, commanding tone of Master Howlett. Both men had treated him less than dirt in various ways. Creed had come to prefer his old man’s brand of abuse over Howlett’s. It was more straight forward.

                A light came on cross the open foyer, and Victor growled at it, wanting to run from it but feeling rooted to the spot. A silhouette appeared in the light, and Victor squinted at it for a moment, not sure if he recognized its shape. All of his feral senses were firing, trying to make sense of the situation. But they all felt blunted somehow, and his head felt foggy despite his heightened state of dread.

                “Come here, Creed. Don’t keep me waiting.”

                He felt himself pulled towards the next room—or maybe it was pulled towards him, as he didn’t remember actually walking—and found himself inside what had once been the Howlett’s master bedroom.

                The details were more foggy here, as he had never been to this place more than handful of times in his youth. Every time he had, he’d been made to stand in the middle of the old red oriental rug, between the foot of the large, curtained canopy bed, and the fireplace, with Mrs. Howlett’s vanity behind him. She would sit there, brushing her hair, fawning over one of her other sons, ignoring his existence, pretending she hadn’t pushed him out of her womb and forgotten him just as quickly.

                Victor always hated her.

                But she wasn’t there now. Nor was his former master.

                The only presence here was the man who was trying to achieve that same title, and until recently, had failed.

                Essex, looking far too at home in the dated surroundings, eyed him coolly from his seated spot next to the long windows that overlooked the land below and Victor’s little cabin from afar.

                “It took a great deal of digging,” Sinister began, looking around lazily, “but I think I managed the reconstruction rather well, don’t you?”

                “You think this is cute, do ya?” Victor muttered. “Ya really think you can do to me what you did to LeBeau? Ya think I’m that stupid?”

                “You’re not stupid, Victor.” Sinister replied. “You’re ignorant. And prone to overestimating yourself. Which is worse, really.”

                The door behind Victor shut with a quick snap, and Creed glanced over his shoulder, seeing that McCoy had now entered the room as well and stood there, baring the exit.

                “You don’t scare me.”

                “Then why are you trembling?” Hans asked, smiling and showing a wide grin of sharp, wicked looking teeth. Dark Beast was drawn up to his full height, looking far more animal than anything resembling human at this point, all his intellectual mannerism vanished. Victor was loath to admit it, but the creature was far more nightmarish here, in this hologram or whatever it was that Sinister had trapped him in.

                Sabretooth turned to attack him, fangs and claws barred at their full extent, but Hans knocked him all too easily to the floor with one powerful swipe. Victor went down hard on the floor, falling face first into the rug, feeling it burn against his skin and feeling the fresh throb of torn and wounded skin across his chin and chest. He could feel blood seeping through the stinging wounds on his skin.

                Winded, he tried to push himself up again, blinking in confusion. Since when had McCoy gotten so strong?

                Essex grabbed a fist of his yellow hair and yanked him forward, forcing him to kneel between his knees. Victor cursed and tried to yank himself back, only to have Sinister strike him hard across the face with the handle of his cane, leaving a large welt just under Creed’s eye.

                “Stop struggling. You’re not going anywhere.”

                “Fuck you!”

                Sinister narrowed his dark eyes at him, “I’ve gotten very tired of the obscenities that are constantly spewing from your lips. Let’s put them to better use.”

                He pulled Victor’s head in closer along his thigh and the feral actually winced at the pain he felt from his scalp. He reached up to sink his claws into Essex’s thighs, wanting to tear open the flesh and rip through arteries and watch him marinate in his own blood. But though his hands gripped him, they did nothing more.

                Victor stared, wide eyed, trying to force down his claws but remaining utterly powerless to do so. “What the fuck are you doing to me!?” he bellowed.

                “Repressing your powers.”

                “You can’t do that! No one can do that!”

                Hans was suddenly behind them, dragging Victor’s arms back behind him and holding them tight, pressed harshly against the man so that he had no choice to lean more fully against Sinister.

                “Quiet.” Sinister muttered, reaching down to undo the buttons on his riding pants, exposing his pale erection to other man.

                Victor jerked his head back instinctively, but Hans kept him still, one huge hand splayed across the back of his skull. The golden eyed man was surprised then to see that the man before him was in fact fully erect, something that until this moment he didn’t believe was possible.

                He tried again to pull away, but Hans snarled at him and held him still, using enough force that Victor almost felt like his neck would snap. Essex’s gloved hand came under his chin and coaxed him closer, as Hans loosened his hold.

                “I admire your resistance,” the black haired man cooed. “it’s one of the many qualities that drew me to you in the first place. But you can’t spend your entire existence this way, Victor, at war with everything and everyone around you. It’s not what you were created for.”

                “What the hell would you know about it…” Victor muttered, shaking and sweating, finding that he still couldn’t break free from the hold the two men had him in, but now also feeling the grinding heat of McCoy’s body behind him. “Better people than you have tried to hold me down…guess what? They’re all dead now.”

                “And yet you don’t avoid people like me.” The man above him answered calmly. “In fact, time and time again, you seek us out.”

                “Liar.”

                “You’re a wild thing, Victor. Or at least you imagine yourself to be. But you’re reckless, directionless, on your own. You’re not a lone wolf. You’re a wild dog, looking for a master.”

                “I ain’t no dog! I ain’t no--!”

                Essex hit him again and this time his head throbbed and blood dribbled faintly from under his hairline. He whined quietly, still unable to break free. Why did he feel so weak?

                “It doesn’t make you weak,” he assured him quietly. “A dog and his master have a mutually beneficial relationship. The dog defends his master against his enemies, he slays those who would endanger him. And in return, he is well rewarded.”

                Victor turned his eyes up towards the other man’s face, looking at him more fully. He felt small…angry…helpless. Things he promised himself he would never feel again. Even if that meant not feeling anything. Except rage.

                “You always wanted a master. You just never found the right one. Until now.”

                There was no getting out of this.

                Hans was already hungrily dragging his tongue and teeth across Victor’s back and shoulders, having yanked down his vest and using it to bind his arms temporarily, while his thick hand had worked its way around his front, palming him roughly between his thighs, demanding a response that came more easily than Creed liked.

                Essex sat back, waiting, watching, his hand still coiled in Creed’s hair. He felt the heated fog of Dark Beast’s pheromone manipulation starting to overwhelm him now, as well as the physic hold that Sinister still had over him, keeping him from applying his full strength.

                But it just didn’t seem to matter anymore…

                Essex had wounded a soft spot within him that Victor thought he had cut out long ago. And now he was left shaken by it with no way to escape.

                The only choice left was the one he hated most.

                He leaned in and licked Essex tentatively, earning a faint, quivering sigh from the other man in response. He licked him again, and then bent forward, opening his mouth wider to take him in more fully, surprising the man by dipping his head all the way down and then back up again slowly.  Sinister moaned again, scratching his fingers through Creed’s hair. “Good boy.”

                Creed shut his eyes tight at the words, his whole body clenching. But he didn’t stop. Eventually, Hans allowed his hands to move freely, letting them brace against Sinister’s splayed thighs as the larger Mutant dragged Victor’s hips backwards, and lifted him a bit higher, forcing his head further down between Sinister’s pale thighs.

                He felt the man toying with him, yanking his jeans down until he fully exposed, squeezing him painfully for a moment or two, only to pull away and scratch his claws down his back and thighs, leaving long bloody marks against his tan skin that continued to seep when they should have closed instantly.

                “What’s the matter?” Hans growled in his ear, enjoying the rough way he was teasing the other feral, “After that little display you gave us with number 16, you’ve more than proven you’re always ready to fuck…”

                Sabretooth groaned, almost piteously. In all the chaos, he had nearly forgotten about Dorian, or anything that had come before this awful surreal hell he found himself in now.

                He’d already spent so much of himself that everything felt hotter and more sensitive than before, almost raw and painful. But none the less insistent and demanding of his remaining energy. The pheromones were making him crave sex, in any form, but he was so worn out and Hans was brutal…

                Victor almost whimpered as the man bit his shoulder hard, just as he forced his fingers inside him with all too little preparation. He nearly bit Sinister as result, and expected to be punished, but instead the man just moaned again, face flushed, looking over Victor’s head to Hans’s, grinning at him wickedly.

                “Not so rough with your toys, darling. It’s no wonder they break so easily…”

                McCoy didn’t answer, he just chuckled darkly, feeling Creed shake and twitch faintly as he moved quick and rough in and out of him, fingers reaching deeper and probing his prostate with an expert’s touch.

                Victor moaned loudly, jolting and lifting his head from Sinister’s lap for a moment, trying to catch his breath. The forceful, intense touch was more painful than pleasurable, but did exactly as intended, stimulating him to the point of almost being unbearable and yet totally undeniable.

                He hoped it would be over soon, at this pace he would cum again in seconds and more than likely pass out from the overstimulation. But just as he was nearing the edge, Hans withdrew his fingers and scratched his claws along the side of his thigh angrily, “Don’t you dare think you’re going to finish before we do, you dirty little mutt.”

                Hans mounted him then and Victor felt a cry wrenched out of his mouth at the force of it. But Sinister pulled his attention back quickly, commanding his focus once more. “Not a single word out of you Creed…I hope you’re not expecting pity. This is exactly the same kind of thing you’ve done to so many who’ve had the misfortunate to cross your path.”

                Sinister forced the man’s head down on him again and Victor gasped as he was made to take him in fully, hardly allowing him even room for a breath. Essex’s hips rocked harshly up into his mouth, using Creed up with little regard to his comfort.

                All Victor could do was hold on for the ride, praying it would be over soon. He tried not to think of anything, knowing without a doubt that Sinister would read his thoughts. His mind already felt violated and torn at, now his body was quickly following suit.

                It would have broken nearly anyone else. But Creed had one thing that was more formidable than this abuse, one thing that kept his anchored through anything. The ball of rage that was at the very core of his being.

                Everything else was overloaded. He couldn’t think, or even move on his own anymore. He was being held in place between the two men, who were using him, their eyes locked on each other, being reduced as toy between the two of them.

                Sinister let out a little stuttering breath that was almost lost among the other noises and Victor felt him coat his throat. The feral groaned, forcing himself to swallow. Only after the man had finished completely did he allow Creed a breath, holding the man’s head in his lap as Hans continued to drive into him.

                “Nathaniel…damn it all…I can’t hold out much longer…”

                “Then don’t darling,” Sinister coed, looking flushed and satisfied, looking down at the glazed expression on Victor’s face. “If you tease me anymore with those delicious sounds your making, we’re going to have to start all over again…and poor Victor looks so tired…”  he stroked Creed’s battered face. “Hold still Victor…”

                Hans jerked harder against him, and after several deep thrusts that had Victor’s eyes rolling in his head, the beast finally came with a roar of his own, shouting Nathaniel’s name in relief.

                Creed felt numb. For a moment he thought he was going to pass out. He felt himself going limp, falling from Sinister’s lap.

                He hit the floor with a jolt, which snapped him from his momentary black out back into full awareness with a rasping shout.

                He kicked out, trying to throw Hans off him and run from the room…

                But as the panic faded and his vision cleared he realized that he was alone. There was no one to fight off.  He laid there, sweating and shaking, nerves still sizzling like he’d been electrocuted…but he felt no pain. Well, perhaps phantom pain. He swore he could still feel Hans inside him, and taste Essex’s flesh in mouth.

                Neither of his tormentor’s were present. And as he looked around now, he realized that he was once again in Gambit’s old bedroom, right where he had left off…

                For a long moment he remained flattened to floor, unable to move. It felt as though somehow his already cracked vision of the world had continued to splinter, and now he simply did not know where to begin. Sinister…had finally managed what years of bloody combat and endless war, and even Weapon X had not achieved.

                Victor was _afraid_.

                The door came open abruptly and Creed yelped in spite of himself, wide eyed and tense. But neither Sinister nor Hans appeared.  Instead it was just another of Sinister’s worker drones, who looked down at Creed with empty eyes and a thin-lipped smile.

                “There’s no need for alarm, Mr. Creed. Doctor Essex has instructed us to escort you back to your enclosure, and assist you, if you require it.”

                There were two more clones standing at the ready behind him, waiting instruction. Victor bared his fangs at them and managed to push himself to his feet, though his knees continued to quake faintly and his head still felt as though his brains had been pulled out and his skull stuffed with cotton.

                “Where’s the other one?” he muttered to them, blinking around. “Where’s yer little pal?”

                “Number 16? Oh we’ve already removed him, sir, don’t worry.”

                Victor paused nervously. “Is he dead?”

                “No. He’s simply been moved to the infirmary.  We had some trouble rousing you at first, and Doctor McCoy wanted to be sure that you were handled separately.”

                Victor’s clouded eyes darkened angrily at the mention of McCoy’s name. “Where’s the fucker now?”

                “He’s with Doctor Essex. He asked not to be disturbed.”

                “I’ll bet…”

                The clone moved forward, trying to take his arm, but Victor shrugged him off.

                “Get away…” he snarled, words slurring faintly in his punch-drunk state. “I’ll rip ya to shreds otherwise.”

                “Mr. Creed, refusing assistance is illogical. You’ve clearly been weakened by the Doctor’s punishments, as they said you would be. if you’d only let—“

                Victor took a swipe at the man in front of him, caught him in the throat and watched him fall to the ground, gushing blood. The others lingered in the door, blinking and unmoved by their companion’s death. “I’m not in the _mood_ …” the feral gurgled, shuffling past them on unsteady feet. At the very least, these two seemed to have the good sense not to try interfere as he moved past them.

                He didn’t make it far down the corridor before he was greeted by another unwanted sight. That of Arclight, making her way down an intersecting hallway. She looked as unpleasant as always, but when her eyes set on Creed they turned particularly cold.

                She paused a moment, looking him over and then folded her arms. “You look like shit, Sabretooth.”

                “So does your face…” Victor muttered half-heartedly.

                She grunted a the feeble come-back, “I suppose the boss finally got tired of putting up with your shit, hmm? No more special treatment for his big bad pussy cat.”

                “Fuck off,”

                She grabbed his neck and actually managed to flatten him against the wall. He coughed, looking down at her, though she was nearly as tall as he was. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you how I don’t take shit from men like you, Mutant or not.”

                He grunted faintly in agreement.

                “If found Scalphunter in your stupid enclosure a little while ago. Know anything about that?”

                The confused look in Creed’s glazed eyes were enough of an answer and she released him with a look of irritation and disgust. The larger man slipped down the wall slightly, struggling to catch himself.

                “I don’t know what Sinister’s doing to ya, Sabretooth, but I know you probably deserve it.”

                Creed felt no urge to argue though he glared death at her.

                She looked at him sternly again, “You keep away from John, and you keep that rabid little fuck toy of yours in check. I never liked LeBeau, so if you think I would go easy on that thing, you are sadly mistaken.”

                He didn’t answer but his eyes widened faintly, as if suddenly threading her words together in his mind. If Scalphunter had been found in the enclosure—she hadn’t mentioned in what state—that meant that Timmy had been left unguarded and exposed in his absence. It had never occurred to him that he had to worry about forces other than Hans or Essex themselves trying to attack his Beta.

                He spat something at her and stumbled past, limping into a lope down the hall, ignoring her curses as he made his way from one end of the compound to the other.

                By the time he reached the Sanctuary, some of the lag had begun to dissipate as his healing factor finally caught up with the damage. He was full out sprinting by the time he reached the enclosure, breaking through the security wall with little regard to how to hurt him.

                “Timmy! Shrimp! Where are ya!? Answer--!”

                “Victor?”

                Creed stopped in surprise when he looked up and saw his Beta perched on a high branch in one of his favored trees. Apparently he had been hiding up there since he had regained consciousness, anxiously waiting for his return.

                The nimbler creature quickly descended the branches and came to land at Victor’s feet, looking the man over worriedly for a second before throwing his arms around him and clutching him tightly. Creed held him fast and possessively, sinking down to his knees with him.

                The Alpha could smell the metallic tang of dried blood on his skin, as well as the lingering scents of both Greycrow and McCoy’s scents. That pulsing orb of anger in his chest seemed to be getting bigger and harder to contain by the second.

                “Did they do anythin’ to ya?”

                Timmy made an indistinguishable little grunt, wincing, then pulled back to look at Creed worriedly. “Dorian! Dey—“

                “He’s ok.”

                The smaller clone cocked his head in surprise. “Wha? Beasty took ‘im. You found him, he’s okay? Dey didn’t—?”

                “He’s fine, shrimp. Let it go.”

                He stood up, pulling the smaller man with him and they made their way down the hill towards the cave. Creed was feeling more whole, but his mind was worn out. All he wanted to do was sleep and forget. He was sure he had a few bottles of liquor stashed throughout the place…if he could remember where he’d put them.

                Right now just remembering his name seemed like too much.

                Sinister had really done a number on him, but he was still afraid to fully admit this, even to himself.

                He stumbled down the hill and to his surprise, Timmy managed to catch him and helped to guide him back to into the darkness of their den, away from the light and prying eyes of the rest of the Sanctuary.

                Victor didn’t appear to be hurt, but Timmy knew that something terrible had transpired. The look in Victor’s eyes was something he had only seen once before, when Dark Beast had attacked him.

                He got him into the cave, allowing Victor to slump onto the mat that was their bed. Creed seemed to be fading out, his energies over-exerted. “Victor, what did dey do? Tell me, tell me, let me help…”

                “Just let me sleep, runt…”

                Timmy shook him nervously, afraid to let him slip completely under. “No! They did something, _you_ did something, I can tell! Just tell me, please, I’m scared…”

                Victor firmly put a hand around the back of his neck, steadying him and looking at him seriously. “They tried to get me hurt Copy-Cat…didn’t work out the way they planned…so they fucked with my head instead.”

                Timmy’s eyes widened further. “Dorian…what did you do to him?”

                “Fucked him.”

                “You what!?!”

                The smaller man smacked the larger one, knocking his hand away and climbing on top of him, grabbing his broad shoulders and actually managing to give him a thorough shake. “You fucked him!? Dat’s what you did?! You can’t just—he’s so—you could have _broke_ him!!”

                Victor snapped at him and pushed him back hard, sending Timmy rolling. “I fuck who I want, when I want, how I want…” he muttered, reacting out of an instinctive need to reassert his dominance. Timmy cowered a little, knowing he’d edged over that delicate line of power by speaking out of turn, but the chaos of the day’s events had overwhelmed his better judgements.

                Creed sunk back then, even more drained, looking at Timmy tiredly from his slumped position on his side. “Besides…it wasn’t how I wanted it to go. After what Hans slathered him in…he’s lucky he didn’t end up like the rest of the batch you came from.”

                He closed his eyes tiredly, causing him to miss the quiet expression of horror that crossed Timmy’s face. The other man sat still, knees drawn up, watching Creed from the edge of the square of dried grass, afraid to further upset him. After a few minutes, the larger feral dropped off into a heavy, exhausted sleep. Timmy waited until he was sure the man wouldn’t be disturbed by his movements, then quickly made his way back up the hill.

 

***

 

                The Raven haired man beside him was asleep, feeling the drain of using his telepathic manipulation for an extended amount of time. Though Creed was far from the exhausting challenge that LeBeau was in this manner, it was no less taxing on Sinister to maintain the minds of two other people while engaged in such detailed manipulation of memory, senses and physical and emotional responses.

                Hans looked at him dully, feeling heavy and uneasy.  “Breaking” Sabretooth in this manner had seemed like the correct course of action at the time. If not only for effectiveness, but for the sheer sadistic joy he usually derived from these things. But complications had occurred. Many complications in fact. Variables he could not have accounted for.

                Such things were almost completely intolerable to the mad genius. He could not have foreseen that Essex would become so…engrossed with Creed. It was not quite the same obsession he’d had with LeBeau. No, that was something else entirely. But there was still this covetous desire for the man, for the power that he held, and the importance and significance he would obtain once the plan came to completion.

                Hans could see what Sinister could not. That his desire to conquer those who would one day be Apocalypse’s strongest acolytes, to have them mewling and pawing at his knee, slaves to his whim, was already beginning to distract him from their goal.

                And Hans didn’t like it. Not one bit.

                Not simply because of what Lord Apocalypse would likely do after his return, if he thought for the briefest of moments that Nathaniel had betrayed him in anyway…no. That Hans could not even stand to think on. Because he knew he would be helpless against it.

                What bothered him more was the idea that Sinister was far more willing to allow himself to touch and be touched by these painfully lesser Mutants than he was willing to be with the man he considered his partner and equal.

                He bristled, moving himself from the bed where he had lain for awhile after the ordeal with Creed. Nathaniel had been willing to let him touch him, only in the briefest of manners, and had held back Hans from achieving a real physical orgasm for what felt like an unfathomable amount of time.

                Even now, the small release paled in comparison to what it could have been, if only Nathaniel were willing to relinquish even the smallest bit of power to him in the physical world. Normally Hans didn’t mind that Sinister dominated him in this fashion. It was somewhat of a turn on. But the denial and the teasing had gone beyond enticing build up to a worthy release.

                Now it was just cruel and absent. As if Essex had become…disinterested in him.

                McCoy pulled on his lab goat and a fresh pair of trousers and made his way down to the infirmary, where he knew Dorian had been taken for examination.

                His one small condolence in this matter _should_ have been that his mutinous former play thing _Dorian_ _Grey_ would slashed to ribbons, learning that not only did it not pay to trust people like Sabretooth, but that double crossing someone like Dr. Hans McCoy was even worse.

               

                He stormed into the infirmary, causing a nervous scattering of the workers throughout. Dorian was on a gurney, the cuts and bruises on his pale skin being administered to. McCoy’s eyes narrowed darkly as he approached the bed. Somehow seeing that Dorian had escaped the ordeal with little more than some bruises and scratches infuriated him even more.

                “Leave us,” he snarled at the other clones, who obeyed without hesitation, leaving the dazed and disoriented victim nervously sprawled upon the bed, knowing he was helpless should McCoy choose to attack him now.

                The blue furred Mutant stared down at him for a long mind, lips pursed tightly, hands folded angrily behind his back, large hands balled into fists. Dorian could sense the man’s deep desire to strike out at him, and it made him tense and shake.

                “Disappointed?” he asked quietly.

                Hans blinked, almost unsure if the word was a genuine question or absolute cheek on the other man’s part. He frowned more deeply.

                “I should be looking at a corpse. Or the pieces of one.”

                Dorian sighed tiredly, letting his eyes slide closed and turned his head away from the man, only to have his head tugged back, finding McCoy leaning close over him, fingers gripping his hair at the root.

                “I know that your endorphin levels right now are off the charts and that you might have this false sense of security in what Sabretooth has unwittingly done for you today. But that good feeling will fade, my friend. It always does. And you’ll be left with the sad realization of what he really is.”

                “Even if it’s true,” Dorian muttered. “He’s still better than you. At the height of madness…he still treated me as a living, thinking participant…and I’ve only ever been a tool for you to use, Doctor.”

                Dorian shivered, uncertain why he wasn’t able to restrain the words from falling from his lips. He had escaped death once today, but it seemed like he must still be after it.

                But Hans didn’t tear his throat out. The man didn’t even strike him in fact. He simply stood there, an odd expression on his animal-like features as though considering something. Finally, he released his grip on Dorian’s hair and stepped back. The rage in him seemed to have cooled, but only on the surface.

                “I think it best that you keep your distance from Mr. Creed from now on.”

                The man upon the bed blinked at him, unsure if he had heard correctly. “In fact, I’m going to make sure that you waste no further time dealing with him. He’ll be quite busy with his own training and re-education process, I’m sure you’ll be quickly forgotten.  As of now you’re on new assignment. You will be very closely watched, by myself when necessary. And if I so much as catch a sniff of him on you…” he paused and leaned close. “I’ll see that both he and that foul little beta of his suffer deeply for it. You’ll be able to hear the screams from your barracks.”

                Dorian trembled, wanting to cry out, to beg him to not to act against Victor or Timmy, but any plea now, any show of emotion would only add fuel to the fire. So he remained still, nervously passive, and nodded his head silently.

                Hans grinned and scratched one of his long claws across the man’s cheek, drawing a little line of blood which he licked away with a smile. “Good.” He turned on heel then, excusing himself to the room. “Rest well tonight. Tomorrow, you will report to my office for your new assignments.”

                Dorian waited until the man was completely out of the room and all sound of him had died away before exhaling a loud shaky breath and covering his face with his hands in anguished frustration. It all had been for nothing.

                One of the attending assistants moved towards him to finish his treatment, but Dorian bellowed at him to leave, which the other man did without protest.

                He laid there on the cot in silence for several long minutes, trying to get hold of the panic in his throat and chest, the anger that was burning at the back of it and making him grind his teeth. He didn’t want these feelings, he didn’t want this terrible helplessness. It seemed like no matter what he did, he couldn’t escape his desperate circumstances.

                He sensed a new movement then, and jolted, turning in surprise to find not another face like his own, but that of another clone’s.

                “Timmy!”

                The young feral man shushed him harshly, grabbing the thick curtain that enclosed the space around the bed and pulling it around them like a shroud. He ducked nervously beneath the bed for a moment, crouched in the shadow, listening. Dorian did the same, eyes nervously flickering from his unexpected visitor to the vague shadows passing the sheet.

                But after a moment or two, it was clear that they were no longer a priority.

                Dorian tried to roll over and sit up, watching as Timmy emerged slowly from his hiding place. “What are you doing here?!” he the man hissed at him. “How on earth do you keep getting out without being noticed? It’s mind boggling actually—“

                Timmy pressed a finger to Dorian’s lips, climbing up on the bed to have a better look at him. “Quiet, kitty,” he hushed. He looked the smaller man over, making note of the familiar bruises and scratches that Creed had left upon him.

                He felt a little ripple of jealousy go through him and his expression soured for a moment. Dorian touched his arm then, making him blink. “It wasn’t anything either of us intended…” he explained. “I know how much he means to you. You must know that I could never compare to—“

                Timmy surprised him then by leaning in and kissing him earnestly and then hugging him close in an awkwardly possessive, yet caring manner. “Just glad you okay…” he mumbled. “Victor can be rough, be mean sometimes. Just what he is.”

                “I…I suppose so.”

                The dark haired clone pulled away, “Timmy, were you worried about me?”

                The auburn haired mutant nodded. Dorian was touched. Stunned, actually. “Timothy…thank you. Having met you, getting to learn more about you and watch you become…the person you have. You gave me hope you know. You both did.”

                “Hope for what?”

                “That we can be more than what this place, these people, have designed for us. That we have a will of our own.”

                Timmy nodded slowly.

                Dorian smiled tiredly, feeling himself come down more and more from the endorphin high. “Timmy…you have to go back now. You can’t be seen here and…I’m afraid I won’t be able to visit the Sanctuary any longer.”

                The red-eyed mutant looked up in surprise, but Dorian hushed him before he could protest. “It must be this way for now, understand? McCoy is very…well, I’m not quite certain what he is. But I do believe that he won’t tolerate his patience being any further tested. You must promise me you won’t try to see me, and that you’ll keep Victor from doing so as well.”

                “Non! Prissy Kitty, I won’t—“

                “We haven’t a choice for now.” Dorian said sternly, and Timmy yielded, looking miserable and defeated.

                “Den…what do we do?”

                “We wait, dearest. And we plan.”

                “Plan for what?”

                “Escape.”

 


End file.
